


Down on the Bayou

by abigail89



Category: Almost Human
Genre: FBI agents to the rescue, Gen, Near Future, Shoot 'em Up, bad guys vs. good guys, bro fic, menacing reptiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 13:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15642159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abigail89/pseuds/abigail89
Summary: John Kennex is seriously wounded in another attack by the underground terrorist group, InSyndicate. To protect him, his DRN partner, Dorian, takes him on a cross-country journey that ends in Louisiana’s bayou country. There, they make a final stand.





	Down on the Bayou

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Almost Human fans](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Almost+Human+fans).



Life’s too short, c’mon, let’s have some fun,  
a good time there for everyone,  
the kind that’ll keep you feeling young  
Down on the bayou.  
\--Jimmy C. Newman “Down on the Bayou”

_John! JOHN!_

_Don't you dare die, John Kennex. I swear to God I will hunt you down and kill you myself._

_John!_

*Flashes of brilliant light. Deafening blasts. Pain. So much pain.*

He opened his eyes, but squeezed them shut again in the onslaught of blinding firelight. "Pelham! Where are you?" he shouted. "Pelham! Another blast shook the ground, spraying rock and crumbled cement on his face and body; it stung, burned like fire. "Pelham!" A concussive explosion went off somewhere nearby; it deafened him, dulling the screams of bullet fire and human agony. Time slowed, stilled as another burst of bright light soared over him.

"John!"

He turned his face toward the sound of his name. It sounded odd, like the tones were swimming through viscous liquid, thick and languid and deep. Opening his eyes again, he saw the familiar pale blue, stark and bright against dark skin tone, but wide, seeking. Frantic. It didn't make sense because Dorian cannot feel fear; he can say the words, but fear was a human emotion and Dorian wasn't human.

"John!"

_John!_

He gasped, so hard that his entire body shuddered with the force of it. "Pelham!" he shouted.

Strong hands pressed into his; unfamiliar faces darted above and around him, and unfamiliar voices sounded harsh in his sensitive ears. "Dorian!"

"John," came one voice, one that spoke deeply to him. "John, it's Sandy. Lie still. You're injured."

"Sandra, oh god, where's Dorian? What happened?"

"Ma'am, you need to stand back so the doctors can attend to his wounds. Please." John looked around trying to locate Sandra's calm, strong face in the cacophony that swirled about him. 

"He's confused," Sandra said. "Please, let me talk to him and then he'll be more cooperative. He's been injured before and I'm afraid this will frighten him even more." _What is she talking about? Where's Pelham?_

"Well, move over there then. We need to assess his wounds and prep him for surgery immediately."

Suddenly, Sandra Maldonado's face swarmed into his eyeline. "John, listen to me." She put her hands on his face; they're cold. "John, you've been shot. Do you remember what happened?"

 _What happened?_ He closed his eyes, trying to focus on one image, one thought, one sound of a bullet as it ripped through his skin, the thumping of pulse charges going off near the car. They're behind the black squad car. No, they were trapped inside a building. near the wall. A room with a box with a man in it. A young woman with a little girl. Pelham, injured. The MX telling him his partner will die. _I've got to get him out of here!_ "What? I can't...I don't know."

"Ma'am, we're taking him to surgery now. Please, you'll have to wait outside with. . . ."

He felt movement and one eye opened to see lights slide along; he felt a bump as the gurney entered the elevator that took him up to the surgical floor. "Detective Kennex, can you hear me?"

His eyes fluttered open, trying to block out the light, but desperately wanting to see where he was, who was talking to him, to make sense of what was happened. "Yes. What happened to Sandra?"

"She'll be waiting in the lobby for you when you get out of surgery. Is she family?"

"No, she's my . . .she's my captain. My boss."

"Detective, is there anyone we can call? Any family member we can call for you?"

Mom. Dad. No. _They're gone, just like Anna. Like Pelham._ Like everyone in his life. He felt his stomach plummet into an abyss, one filled with darkness and pain. And then, it dawns on him.

"Dorian," he breathed as he felt the heavy darkness steal through his body.

"He's crashing!"

"Just Dorian."

*~*

Rudy Lom gazed down at the still, bullet-ridden MX unit. The problem with the MX units-- _one of the many problems_ , he thought--was with the particular alloy used for their outer shell. It contained too much polymer; great for making the units lighter for riding in the standard issue patrol vehicles and nimble in the field. The older DRN units were a good eighteen centimeters shorter than the MXs, but the DRN shells were solid titanium. Heavier, but so much more durable than that crap the MXs were made of.

Still, the MX units had much to commend: they did everything asked of them; they were cautious yet deadly with a weapon. Human officer deaths had declined slightly with the MX assigned as partners. Slightly. Not good enough for some policy makers. _Any human life saved is worth it. An MX unit can always be brought back online by a competent repair engineer, even another MX unit._ That was another issue with the DRNs: “Synthetic Soul”, the complex program that imbued them with much more human responses and emotions, including some of the fragilities humans, made the DRNs a little too human and caused some weird feedback and twitches to occur. 

Rudy made a final adjustment in the damaged unit before him, then replaced the polymer chest shield, tightened the small bolts all around, and flipped the “on” switch. The eyes opened on MX 2165, lighter-than-sky-blue that was always a little unnerving. The unit sat up.

"Welcome back, MX-2165," Rudy said, monitoring the unit's programming on the computer screen.

The MX's face lit up as it accessed its internal processing chip. "I have been offline for four days, 2 hours and 45 minutes. Why so long, Mr. Lom?" it asked.

"There was quite a bit of damage to your internal systems." Rudy entered another command and the unit raised its left arm. "And your left arm was shredded off. Took some time to get all the wires replaced. Once we got the arm reattached there were some problems with the software because we've gone to a different system with the newer MX models and. . . .”

Rudy looked up from his computer to find MX-2165 staring at him with those blank, unnerving watery blue eyes. Cameras. Whatever. If it had been him designing the eyes, he would've made them bright green. Or something. "You don't really care about my problems, do you? I'm just the repair guy."

"That is not true, Lt. Lom," MX-2165 replied. "My bodily functions are of paramount important to my performance in service to the police department."

Rudy sighed. "Indeed. Why don't you run your self-diagnostic program to make sure I didn't miss anything?"

"Very good, Lieutenant." Rudy heard the soft whirl of gears and servos as the unit shifted to stare off into nothing while it accessed its diagnostic programming in the main processing core.

"That'll keep you busy for a while," Rudy breathed. He hit more keystrokes to allow the MX to access the new programming for his left arm, a new and improved left arm, and hoped like hell the right arm didn't try to rip it off because it didn't recognize the new hardware. It had been known to happen. Not to him, of course. But to other engineers who weren't as attentive to those sorts of details.

Rudy walked through his cluttered lab space to the far table. "Now this is a real piece of programming.” He looked down at the still figure of DRN-0165. Dorian. John Kennex's partner. Friend. _Savior._ And, of late, his own roommate. As roommates go, Dorian was engaging and extroverted, but quiet and non-intrusive when requested. He didn't make a mess and was actually pretty useful around the flat. He cleaned more thoroughly and efficiently than any domestic bot he'd ever engaged. And, he could cook! He didn't eat, of course, nor could he enjoy the aromas of the meals he'd prepared, but he took some...well, pleasure from watching Rudy eat his creations. And only one time did Rudy find a dish inedible, which, when he thought about it, was a pretty damn good track record considering how many meals _he_ had thrown out.

Dorian was stretched out on the table, still in sleep mode. Rudy had carefully and painstakingly repaired all the damage done to him by a spray of bullets and explosions caused by the nefarious InSyndicate, the same raid that had nearly cost John Kennex his life. Dorian had sustained serious damage: multiple shots had torn through his limbs, head, and chest, two of which had penetrated the core of his processing unit. How the android had continued to fire his weapons, and thus protecting his human partner from further harm was a true mystery to Rudy. Logically, mathematically, scientifically, Dorian should have shut down when the first bullet pierced the processing core. But it had been Dorian who'd carried John out of harm's way once the members of InSyndicate had been killed, captured, or run off. Once he'd deposited John's bleeding, bullet-riddled body with the medical team, he then collapsed like a plank into the arms of Detective Richard Paul. 

Rudy checked the connection at the nape of Dorian's neck, making sure it was still completely plugged in, and at the computer's end. He didn't want anything to chance a fritz-out, chance damaging the many hours of work he'd invested in repairing the android. Captain Maldonado had said once that Dorian was special. In the short time they'd lived together, he had to concur. He was unlike any artificial life form he'd ever worked on. With. Dorian was perceptive, intuitive. Scarily so. More perceptive and empathetic and sensitive than most humans he knew. Not that he knew too many people outside the nerds and engineers who were his usual crowd. And, Dorian even knew the right thing to say at the right time. To him. Over time, he'd noticed Dorian had picked up on things that bothered or annoyed him, like chatter in the mornings before he'd had his cuppa. Or the fact that he liked to listen to classical music at night on a very low volume; that had driven his grad school roommate nuts. "Just turn the damn thing up, Rudy," the guy had insisted. "It's better than hearing only bits of the music!" But Rudy didn't want to share; he liked it soft so that only he could hear it. But Dorian understood.

He made one final adjustment, then picked up the energy stick that would shock Dorian back into consciousness. "Here we go," Rudy muttered. And he touched Dorian's neck. The handsome android gasped and his eyes fluttered open and his head turned to regard him.

"Rudy? Where am I? Where's John? "

"Welcome back, DRN-0167," Rudy said as he read the frantically scrolling lines of data on his terminal. "You seem to be operating at factory specs."

"What happened? I can't seem to access my main memory bank." Dorian's face lit up and his eyes burned as his programming frantically searched for the bits and bytes that held his recording of his last moments before his main processing core went down. That much he remembered.

"How much do you remember?" Rudy asked kindly. Dorian didn't freak out (and even for an android, it was pretty amazing to witness, but Rudy would never tell him that.) often, except when it came to remembering crime scenes. Recording, documenting, transmitting, and storing the details of a crime scene was one of the main reasons android police officers had been invented. Their positronic memory banks stored enough information for the entire situation to be analyzed in minute detail to bring criminals to justice. If he couldn't call up what had transpired in the shitstorm he and John had been caught in--

"Where's John? Detective Kennex? Is he all right?" Dorian struggled to sit upright, but something was hanging up on his right side.

"Easy there, big guy," Rudy said. "Lay back down before you hurt something."

Dorian fell back onto the table. "There are several bolts that have not been tightened sufficiently in the A-29 region."

Rudy dug out a wrench from the tool box. "Ah. Obviously one the technicians who worked on you overlooked that." He scowled darkly. "I swear to God, how do these people make it out of the training program? Making sure the bolts are tightened is common sense. There. I think I got them all."

"You didn't answer my question, Rudy. Where's John? How is he? Did he get hurt?"

Rudy made a few more adjustments in Dorian's side. Two more bolts were loose, and one was missing entirely. _Someone is going on report, just as soon as I find out who to report._ It also bought him some time before he answered Dorian's questions.

"Rudy?"

He finished and closed up the side panel. "I think you're going to notice a huge difference with the new chest plate. Newest thing. Stronger and lighter alloy. Had to pull some strings to get this for you, Dorian. Hope you appreciate it."

"Rudy, you're stalling. What the hell is wrong with John and where is he?"

Rudy sighed. "There's a reason why you can't remember the last assignment. I had to replace the memory chips when your central processing core burned up."

"Burned up?"

"Yeah, it was crispy when I pulled it out. But, the good news is you have a new one. Loads more space. Less tendency to spark out. I think you'll notice a huge difference."

Dorian gave him a hard stare, one that's unnerving because it looked like the stare one of his professors would give him when he went on on a tangent in class. Kind of like he was doing right now. "Ok, John got shot, but he always gets shot, doesn't he? I mean, you got shot up pretty badly."

"Yes, but when I get shot up badly, you put me back together with new or recycled parts. John isn't exactly built along the same specs as I am."

 _Well, at least he still has a sense of humor._ "True, though his bionic leg didn't get any injuries to it at all. I was pretty pleased with the result. I saw he wasn't using the new leg I got you for him."

"No, because we answered the call right after I gave it to him. We didn't have time to put it on and calibrate it." Dorian looked up at him. "Please. Is he all right?"

"Yes, John is fine. He's at St. Mary's recovering well."

"That's good."

"Yeah, it is." Rudy hesitated. "I can show you the file from the final moments. It's--it's pretty bad."

Dorian sat up smoothly. "I need to see it. It might trigger another memory byte that can help us with this case."

Without a word, Rudy loaded the file. "The audio track was corrupt, and the visual one isn't very good." 

Bright light filled the screen. John's face came next, contorted as he shouted orders to the other officers and MX units. Strafing light from a weapon Dorian was using whited out the screen momentarily, but when the scene reappeared, Dorian was facing the ground and John was prone, bleeding heavily. Blue lubricating fluid dripped from Dorian's bullet holes onto John's chest. The image blurred as Dorian stood and fired again. Then he focused on the faces of the perpetrators facing them. They could clearly see who they were at this point.

"Anna."

Rudy nodded. "John doesn't know yet, though he knew it was members of InSyndicate. The captain doesn't want us to tell him about Anna. Wants him to get his strength back. He's been...he's had a hard time, and not just from the shots."

"PTSD?"

Rudy nodded. "The docs have had to sedate him a couple of times he'd become so agitated. Flashbacks were violent and pretty frightening." Rudy turned his attention back to the computer and wrote a few more lines of code. 

"Oh, that's different," Dorian commented. He wiggled his fingers. "Yes, that was a good adjustment."

"Well, I wanted to make sure the neural pathways to your hands were working properly. That was one of the reasons you've been down so long. I actually had to write some code for you. I took the liberty of redesigning some of your more vulnerable areas, like your arms. I think you'll find that the 'catch' in your right middle finger is gone."

Dorian wiggled his fingers again, and smiled. "Yes, it is. Thank you, Rudy. That's been an issue for a while."

"Don't want you to pass up the opportunity to flip John off when he needs it." Rudy sniggered and coughed into his sleeve. The thought of Dorian, polite, gentle Dorian, giving his adored partner the finger was ludicrous, but yeah, sometimes John needed to have his crankiness handed back to him. 

Somewhere along the way, over the months the months they’d been partnered, Dorian had developed what Rudy could only describe as 'affection' for Detective John Kennex. First of all, only God knew why _anyone_ would develop any friendly feelings for the cantankerous, rude, foul-mouthed, technology-abhorring police officer. He, though, thought John had his hilarious moments, but his contact with the man was limited. Secondly, John hated technology. Oh, he liked his cell phone and his service weapon--a modified version of the department's standard issue that was heftier and had a much quicker action, but beyond that, he had total disdain for and lack of respect for the synthetic units. He had little understanding of why it was important not to violate their inner parts; like humans, the android's circuits were fragile and susceptible to contamination and then total system failure. Like humans, they could be blown to smithereens; they weren't upright, bipedal tanks.. "So what the hell good are they?" Kennex had asked, sneering. "Why is this bucket of wires better than a trained, thinking human being?"

He hadn't had to answer that question because Kennex had stomped off. And then two days later he and Pelham had been caught in a horrific crossfire, a set up that cost Martin Pelham his life and John Kennex, his right leg and seventeen months of his life.

"Okay, try that out, Dorian," Rudy said as the android wiggled his fingers again.

"Very nice. Thank you, Rudy. It's good to be up and functioning again."

"You're welcome."

Dorian looked around. "Do you happen to have a uniform jacket? I suppose mine was shot up pretty badly."

"I don't but you'll find one in your locker."

"Thanks, man. See you around." Dorian waved and turned to walk away.

Rudy watched the naked synthetic stride towards the prep room, and he shook his head as he rolled up the cables, hoping he wouldn't see Dorian for repairs in his lab for a long time.

*~*

"You have a visitor, Mr. Kennex," the young nurse said cheerily.

John lifted his head. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do I have a visitor?"

She gave him that irritating mom-smile, the one everyone gave him since he emerged out of the haze of drugs from surgery. Surgery. More surgery. _I gotta get in another line of work._ It was a recurring thought since that moment, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of a goddamn thing that he'd enjoy doing. Catching bad guys, yeah, that was what he liked.

It was just a damn shame the bad guys kept shooting at him.

"John."

And there he was, standing in the doorway, holding a bunch of flowers, like he'd done it all his life--except Dorian hadn't really had a life, had? He had been conceived in a computer program, built on an assembly line, programmed, charged up, turned on. It sometimes weirded him out to think that Dorian had an on-off switch, like a flashlight or a phone or....well, anything that wasn't _organic_.

"Hey," John said. "How are you?"

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that question?" Dorian entered the room slowly, his eyes looking all around, cataloging the frightening number of machines hooked up to John and evaluating their displays. "Heard you had to have another surgery."

"Yeah. Seems the bullet spray did a number on my shoulder. But hey, I got a new shoulder out of the deal," John said sardonically. "Titanium. Probably last longer than I will."

"It won't. Artificial joints usually last only twenty years or so. You'll have to have a new one."

"Sure I'm going to last beyond twenty years?" John tried to pull himself up in the bed, but between the long incision that rain from stem to stern, the patched-up hole from the shot that went through and through the thigh of his natural leg, the painkillers, and being prone for a week, he couldn’t make his body twist and fell back onto the sheets.

"You probably shouldn't be doing that. Let me raise the head of the bed for you." Dorian found the power button that lifted the top of the bed. "That should make it easier for you to drink water, which your nurse says you haven't been doing enough of."

"It doesn't have any vodka in it," John said. He coughed and grabbed his abdomen. Dorian took the pillow from the chair beside the bed and pressed it gently into him. "Thanks." He coughed some more, grateful for the steady pressure to help his shitty, sliced up abdominal muscles. "Can't wait to be able to work out so I can cough on my own."

Dorian moved the flowers to the chest by the window and sat in a chair. "Captain Maldonado says you're going to be on medical leave for the next six weeks. You should probably wait at least that long before you start exercising again." He handed John the cup with a bent straw in it. "Drink."

John took it, considered being a contrary bastard by not drinking, but took a sip because, damn, he really was thirsty. "I'll think about it."

"Probably should listen to her. She's pretty smart."

Truth was, Dorian was right. Sandra was one of the smartest and savviest people he'd ever had the honor of serving with. She was good people, tough yet fair. And she knew exactly when to kick his ass and what to say to keep him from losing all hope. Without her support he would've never returned to the police force after the ambush that took his leg. That nearly took his life. "That she is," he said. "I'm going to have to do something to support all this metal I'm toting around now. My leg, my shoulder--I'm going to be more like you when I retire if I keep this up."

Dorian gave him a very human shrug and a smile. "Quite possibly. You do have a knack for attracting attention and bullets."

His mind wandered back to the latest encounter with InSyndicate. Electronic bullets. Pulse charge. A bomb that threw off enough power to take out a skyscraper. Shouts. Brilliant discharge light. Dorian shouting at him. Blue fluid leaking from---

"Hey, you were shot, too," he said. "How are you doing?"

Dorian's eyes lit up. "Thanks for asking. Yes, I spent quite a bit of time with the engineering team. Rudy had to replace my central processor and several parts. I'm good as new. Even better. I got an upgraded chest plate." He put his fist on his chest. "A new alloy Cal Tech is using for the Mars expedition. I'm honored to be the first android to use it."

"Well, that's great," John said. "Really. I hope it protects you better."

Five years ago, this whole conversation would've seemed really weird to John. But now, well, this was reality, his reality. Having this conversation with a robot, _his_ robot. But not really. Dorian was his partner, too.

They fell silent and their attention turned to the baseball game that was playing, muted, on the television. "Turn it up, John," Dorian said. "The Dodgers are playing very well this season."

John hit the sound button on his bed and the roar of the crowd came through the speakers. _Homerun by Baxter! The Dodgers are up by two. And here comes James, the manager of the Sox. Seems he wants to have a word with his pitcher._

They watched another couple of innings; Dorian kept filling John's cup with water and putting it in his hand. And John, predictably, scowled each and every time. But he drank.

"So, now you have to get me out of bed to pee," John said, pushing back the covers.

"You're not catheterized?" Dorian asked.

"Nah. They took that out the other day to encourage me to start walking.

Dorian helped John scoot his body around to slide out of the bed. "Why are you wearing your prosthesis?"

"Because it's just easier to get out of bed to go pee. And walk around." John slowly put his weight on his feet, then legs. "This new leg you got from Rudy is really great. It feels more like my real one, well, felt like it did before it got shot. The other one was--"

From the hall, shouts erupted; the general hum of the hospital, omnipresent and low, ramped up significantly. Dorian's disco lights came on. "There's trouble. Get in the bathroom."

John shuffled into the bathroom. "Weapon in the side table."

Dorian quickly found the weapon, a Glock 43 Generation Ten, and loaded for bear. He slipped the safety and loaded the chamber. "Don't come out until I get back, right?" He pointed at John.

"Sure."

John staggered back and sat on the toilet, but not to pee. The urge passed now that he was trying to hear and figure out what the hell was going down in the hallway. 

_Shouting. Bumping. A deep booming. Shaking._

He stood as the building shook. "Damn." It shook again, and again.

Then, silence. It seemed like an eternity passed.

Dorian burst through the door, slammed it shut, and strode into the bathroom. "Time to go."

"Shit, what happened?"

"InSyndicate is what happened." Dorian wrapped his arm around John's shoulder and swept the other under his knees. 

John yelped. "Fuck! I can't bend like this."

"You're going to have to. I've got to get you out of here," Dorian said. 

Dorian's face was a study in concentration. "Captain Maldonado is on site. She's got a car waiting for us behind the hospital."

"So how are we going to get there?" John asked. "Wait, I need to put on something. It's fucking cold out there." He leaned over and grabbed the blue bathrobe off of the bed and placed it on his chest. "Guess I don't have a jacket any more, do I?"

"Plenty of time to get a new one," Dorian said. He opened the door, just a crack, and smoke poured through. "The smoke screen is up. Let's go."

He threw open the door and turned left. More shouting and several gunshots sounded. "Gotta go faster now."

They headed for the stairwell at the end of the hallway; Detective Paul was waiting, wearing full body armor and helmet and carrying a large assault rife. "Go down three flights, turn right and head through the E.R,” he said. “The captain is there in a sports car. They aren't expecting that."

"Thanks, man," Dorian said. "Hang on, John."

John tightened his grip on Dorian's neck. "You're not going to be able to do this." Dorian was slowly picking his way down the stairs.

"I can't put you over my shoulder. Your abdomen was shot up."

"Well, it can't hurt any more than this," John hissed. "It's gonna hurt no matter if I'm carried like a baby or in a fireman's hold."

Dorian was making steady progress down the steps. "One more flight. Think you can get to the door knob?"

"Guess I'm gonna have to."

They reached the second floor where the E.R. was located. Dorian fell against the wall and tried to look around the jamb and through the small window. "Looks clear to me. Captain, you there?"

 _Outside. Now's the time!_ " Sandra Maldonado said through the radio.

"John, get that door knob."

John was feeling dizzy as he reached down for the handle; he fumbled with it and then got a good grip on it, turned and yanked on it. Dorian slid through, but John's head didn't make it through in time. "OW!"

"Oh, damn, I'm sorry."

John groaned. "Fuck, just leave me here to die." He rubbed the sore spot with one hand. The tender surgical incision in his belly was pulling like mad, and he was pretty sure he was going to hurl from the pain. And his I.V. had pulled half-way out. All in all, he was even more sure he should just die. It wasn't worth all this trouble...

Suddenly, he found himself in a wheelchair, his bathrobe wrapped around his shoulders, and his artificial foot dragging. "Hang on, I'm going to get us out of here."

John's final thought was to lift his leg, and when he did, they took off at tremendous speed. If his life weren't in danger, he'd've thought it was kind of fun, going this fast in a wheelchair. But as it was he thought maybe he'd get lucky and Dorian would ram the chair into the wall so he could just die a miserable death, just a bloody smear on the wall of a third-rate emergency room.

The chair skidded to a halt and he would've catapulted out of it had Dorian not clamped his hand on his shoulder. That shoulder had been shot, too, but the pain from the abdomen was currently more intense than it.

He felt himself being lifted again. "Here we go," Dorian said quietly. "Captain Maldonado is here." They slid through the doors and into a solid wave of cold air and very bright lights.

"Shit, man!"

Then, he felt himself being shoved into the back seat of a car, Dorian beside him. "We're in. Let's go."

The car pulled away, and John, through a haze of pain and nausea, heard Sandra ask, "Are you both all right?"

"I think John has passed out from the pain. I wasn't able pick him up very well to get him off the floor, not until I could get him into a chair."

"John," Sandra shouted, "are you okay?"

He grunted. "Barely."

"Hang on! We're going to a safe house and I'll have a medic meet us." He heard her pick up the radio. "This is Maldonado. Code 24-85. Request medic."

 _Is everything all right, Captain?_ came the voice of Lt. Stahl.

"I don't know. Dorian says John may be in trouble. So get me a medic."

 _10-4._ "

*~*

Some time later, John awoke. He felt woozy and out of sorts, but his incision, leg and shoulder weren't hurting. Muffled voices came from beyond the closed door. He looked around, assessing the situation: a soft light glowed from a lamp beside the bed; the room was simply furnished with twin beds and a chest. He struggled to sit upright, and settled for bending his knees and rolling to the edge of the bed. Once there, he put his android leg down and used his good arm to push himself up, trembling. _Must've hit me with some of the really good stuff_ , he thought through the woolliness.

"John, you shouldn't be moving around," Dorian said. He stood in the light of the doorway.

Sandra pushed by him. "What the hell are you doing? The medic had to restitch your incision and pack your shoulder. She left strict instructions for you to not move around."

"Well, since I was unconscious, I didn't get those orders," John replied acerbically. "Where are we anyway?"

"Safe house outside the city."

"Is it wise for us to be here?" John asked. "Shouldn't we be at the safe house at headquarters?"

"No. We were afraid InSyndicate members would have that route covered," Sandra said, coming to sit beside him. "This one was the best we could do until we made a more decisive plan. I'd like to keep you both here, but that's not going to be possible. We're sending you away."

John nodded, only partly comprehending what Sandra was saying. And then it struck him. "Wait. What?" he said, looking at Sandra. "Where're we going?"

She hesitated. "To your relatives in Louisiana."

John's eyes grew wide. "Absolutely not! Anna knows about them, and there's no way in hell I'll put them in any danger!"

"Well, not to your aunt and uncle's place precisely," Sandra said, laying a placating hand on his arm. "We have contacts that are close to them. And besides, your aunt insisted."

John rubbed his face with his hands; the I.V. port was still in and hurting like hell. "What? How the fuck does she know about this?"

"Ah, John. I got to know her pretty well while you were in a coma. She'd call me several times a week for updates. I had to go to her to get power of attorney so I could make some medical decisions on your behalf."

He took in this new information slowly. Now, it was all beginning to make much more sense, and he mentally kicked himself for not thinking about the details of those seventeen months. While he'd been filled in on the big things--the surgeries, losing his leg, the brain swellings and the three times he'd had to be shocked back into life--he had left the smaller details of those months alone. Sandra had, after he'd regained consciousness, told him that she'd been the one consulting with the doctors during his coma. That, he'd kind of expected, and frankly, was glad for. He'd thanked her for that. But after he'd woken up, he resumed making the decisions for his life, his therapy, his unhappy pairing with an artificial limb, never thinking that his only remaining immediate blood relative had had any role during that time.

The few summer vacations they'd taken as a family to visit Victoria Kennex's family in south Louisiana had created fond memories for John as a kid. His mother was a Robicheaux, a family with deep, deep roots that extended almost the length of I-10 in Louisiana, from Lake Charles to New Orleans. Her grandfather had been a detective with the police force in the Big Easy, and made quite a name for himself during his twenty-two years. He'd gotten into some hot shit, gotten himself shot at more than a few times, wounded a few himself. But he’d always managed to land on his feet, and soldiered on, solving more cases than any detective in the history of the NOPD. His life, though, was not without its lessons for his two daughters. "Daddy always said," his mother had said over dinner one night when Edward Kennex had survived a shoot-out with just a superficial bullet wound, "his life would either make us nervous wrecks or give us nerves of steel. Fortunately, it was the latter for me, else there would've been no way in hell I would've been able to marry your father. I love him, but damn, he is no Dave Robicheaux." His father had raised his beer to her. "He was one of a kind. God broke the mold after he was born. Only met him once, but I knew he was special. So was his daughter." That had caused her to chuck a balled up napkin at him. He'd laughed. So had she. Their marriage hadn't been perfect--whose was?--but they'd always gotten along because Victoria had understood him because of Dave Robicheaux. She'd been tough, fair-minded, fiercely protective of her family, and had a helluva right hook. 

It had been too many years since he'd been to visit the Robicheaux side of his family. He'd talked to his relatives many times, on holidays, on the anniversary of his mother's death, or whenever they called. But his aunt, Karen Robicheaux Trepagnier, and her husband Mike, had never said anything about their close association with John's captain during his coma nor that medical decisions had fallen to them. Not that he would've objected, but he found it rather mystifying that they hadn't said anything. _Huh._ He was going to have to have a long conversation with Aunt Karen (in truth he hadn't called her "Aunt" for many years.) But not now. "No, I can't let her do this. She and Mike have a bunch of grandkids."

"Yes, but you won't be going to New Orleans," Sandra replied. "We've come up with a better plan."

"Oh really?" John crossed his arms, but immediately uncrossed his left one. "Ow, dammit. Just what have you been planning and when were you going to tell me you and she were so close?"

Sandra smiled at him. "I've been waiting for you to ask. And I'll fill you in on all of that at a better time. Right now, you need to get ready to go." She picked up a bag from the floor beside the bed. "The medic left bandages, sealant, and all kinds of pain meds. From the shape you’re in, you are far from healed."

"As long as Dorian doesn't try to pick me up like a damsel in distress again, I'll be fine. I can lie flat out in the seat of the car until we get to the airport."

He watched as Sandra and Dorian exchanged glances. "John, we're not going to fly anywhere," Dorian said. "It's too risky. Even though we escaped an InSyndicate raid back at the hospital, and from the reports we've received, we took a few of them down, we know they'll be watching the airport and train station. So, we'll drive. Change cars often. Take unexpected routes."

"You'll also go completely silent. Rudy has turned off Dorian's tracking signal. He won't be able to access any networks. You'll have a burner phone with the wireless turned off. Stahl is setting up a series of stops for you to change cars, phones and credit chips, charge Dorian, and find rest and medical care for you."

John rubbed his eyes. "Isn't it just easier for me to stay in the squad's on-call room?"

Sandra patted his hand. "It might be, but that would mean you'd be under foot. You'd be cranky as hell. And," she dropped her eyes and tone of voice, "I can't guarantee your safety. You know that. We still don't know if there's an InSyndicate mole in the ranks."

"Captain," Dorian said, "I won't be able to access anything? Rudy has guaranteed that I'm bug-free."

"We want to make sure they can't pick up your individual signal. Again, we're not sure how InSyndicate is getting their information, so the best thing we can do is just shut you down. Rudy agrees. He doesn't like it, especially if you should get into some trouble; he won't be able to access your central computing core to download any information or diagnostics, but we're being extra cautious." Sandra gave him a smile. "If we root out the mole, we'll get word to you. But until then, you're running silent."

"Great," John deadpanned. "I hope that means he won't sing the entire way to Louisiana. Oh, and by the way, just exactly where are we going?"

She stood and looked at her watch. "We'll let you know. I need to check in with Detective Paul and make sure the situation is under control. Excuse me."

John rolled onto his side and pushed up; he wobbled as he managed to get upright. Dorian was right there to catch him, give him a steadying hand. "Wow. The drugs are really messing with my head," he admitted. "Feel a little dizzy."

Without a word, Dorian pushed him back onto the bed. "Can I get you anything? Some water?"

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks."

Dorian ambled out of the room, passing Sandra on her way back in. "You okay?"

"Dizzy. Starting to hurt a little, too."

She sat beside him, opening the medical bag. "The medic gave you an injection about four hours ago, but with all the moving around you did, you're probably really tender. It'll get better, but for now, she said you could load up."

"Then hit me."

Dorian handed over the water, so that John could take the pill Sandra handed to him. "Thanks. So what's the plan?"

"You and Dorian need to get going. InSyndicate has gone underground for the moment, so other than monitoring public transportation, they don't know where you are. The only other two who know where you are are Paul and Stahl. We were able to quash the statement from the hospital about your leaving, John."

He nodded. "That's good."

"Then I believe now is the time to go. It's the middle of the night and we can get well out of town before the sun rises," Dorian said. "I saw that there is a bag of clothing for John?"

"Yes, and I packed a duffle with weapons and ammunition, Dorian, just in care," Sandra said, checking her watch. "There are three burner phones loaded with three different numbers to the ones Stahl has so she can contact you. Turn one on every twenty-four hours, then destroy it. And there’s a bag of snacks for John. I didn’t have time to get to the store, so I raided the department snack machine. I hope it’ll keep him from getting too hangry.”

"It will. And since you just gave John a pain pill, I imagine he'll be out for hours."

John snorted. "If you want to keep me out, you won't sing."

Dorian grinned. "I'm not making any promises."

For his final act before succumbing to the meds, John shuffled to the car, his arms about Dorian and Sandra. Sandra pushed the passenger side seat back as far as it would go and placed a pillow on the headrest. "You're going to have to bend, John, so do it fast."

John sat as gingerly as he could manage with Dorian and Sandra controlling his descent into the car by holding onto his arms. "Yeah, got it. Not so bad. God, I really wanna sleep."

"Excellent. That opportunity is now," Dorian said, as he closed the door.

From outside John saw Sandra give Dorian a piece of paper and a hug. "Final orders, I guess," he mused. The thought: _Wonder if I'll ever see my house again?_ skittered across his mind just as he fell asleep.

*~*

"Where are we?"

Dorian looked over at him. "We are in Wyoming. It's a very big state, so we'll be here for a while."

"Too bad I don't give a shit about Wyoming at the moment. Always wanted to visit Yellowstone Park," John muttered.

"You may yet have an opportunity to visit, John," Dorian replied. "How are you feeling?"

"Sleepy. Thirsty," he admitted. "How about you?"

Dorian smiled. "As you know, I do not require food or water. I received a full charge while under Rudy's care, and I have done very little physical activity which preserves my battery power." He handed John a bottle of water. "I took the liberty of purchasing this when I charged up the car last."

The top was cracked already, which John found...thoughtful; had it been any other time, it would've annoyed the shit out of him that Dorian would treat him like a toddler or an invalid. _Suppose that's what I am right now._ He took the bottle and sipped the cool water. "Good."

"Do you need a bathroom break at all?"

John thought for a moment. "Nah, I'm good. Maybe I'll just watch the scenery go by for a while."

"That's a great idea. The mountains are lovely."

John adjusted the seat again so that he could see out of the window. They were driving through a forest; snow had fallen recently. Truth be told, he enjoyed snow. His dad would always try to take he and his mom to the mountains during the winter. Not to ski, though they'd all tried it several times. Mostly, just to get out of the city, see something else, see trees and mountains and rocks rather than artificial constructs called skyscrapers. Once, they'd been caught in a snowstorm as they were leaving their cabin to return home. His father, unused to driving in such conditions, had been very quiet all the way, whereas he was usually talkative, pointing out interesting landmarks or birds or told him about the small towns they passed along the way. His mother had control of the entertainment unit, playing music or a short newscast to catch up on the headlines. Ed loved Elton John, an old British singer whom his dad had seen many times in concert. Their voices were of the same timbre, so Ed could really belt out the old rocker's songs. The one thing they did not talk about was work. Edward Kennex was a great detective, but he tried his level best to never bring the police department home with him. Sure, his partner came over for dinner. The guy-- _what was his name?_ \--was a bachelor and never cooked, so his mom had issued a standing invite for dinner. Dad had once told him the guy always asked what was for dinner that night. If it sounded good, he got this gleam in his eye, and Ed knew to call home and tell Victoria to make a little more. 

Thinking about his parents, and what had been a love-filled and relatively drama-free childhood, conjured up melancholy feelings. And made him angry that his father had gotten the shaft from the department. His investigation into the case of the 'Straw Man' had gone a long way to clearing Edward Kennex's name, so much so that several of the older officers, some still active, some now retired, had told him how sorry they were they hadn't looked more closely at the case or had more faith in Ed Kennex. They knew Ed to be a damn fine officer, one who acted honorably throughout his entire career; they'd all, to the man, known in their hearts there was no way in hell Kennex could have been selling evidence and technology on the black market, especially after Victoria Kennex had had to take out a second mortgage to help pay for her medical treatments after Ed died. 

"Hey, you all right?"

John looked down. Dorian's hand was on his tightly fisted ones. He'd become so lost in the memory of his father's tragic final days that he had a visceral reaction. He relaxed his hands, flexing his fingers to allow the blood to circulate through strangled capillaries; his nails had left reddened divets in his palms. "Yeah, I'm fine." He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly.

"Something has made you very angry."

Ordinarily, John would've passed it off with a sarcastic comment, but he was too fuzzy headed and tired to try to come up with something. "Just thinking about my dad, 's all."

Dorian's hand remained on his. "You restored his good name, didn't you?"

John nodded. "We both did."

"I was honored to be part of that. It was a privilege to get to know your dad through you."

A warm wave rolled through John's body, and his eyes prickled. "Yeah, he was a good man."

"Yes he was, just as his son is."

Okay, that was too touchy-feely. "Dorian. . ."

Dorian moved his hand back to the steering wheel. "Too much?"

"Oh, way, way too much."

"Not sorry, man. You're a good police officer and a great guy. That's the truth."

John closed his eyes and sighed. It was going to be a long damn trip. Maybe if he was really lucky, he'd just sleep through it all.

*~*

When he awoke again, it was dark. He blinked several times, trying to get the sense of his being--he was stiff and sore, probably from the fucking seat not being long enough to support his head; leg was definitely stiff, especially the knee. Even the artificial one refused to move. And his shoulder throbbed. _Great._

"Good evening, John."

John rolled his head. "Hey. What time is it?"

"It's 8:04p.m. and we are in the Central Time Zone. We're on the outskirts of St. Louis. I'm very excited to cross the Mississippi River."

"You've made good time." John scrubbed his gritty feeling face with his hands, wondering when it was the last time he'd washed them. Or ate. Or took a piss. Speaking of which. . . .

"And you missed the most boring trip through Illinois. Nothing but barren fields and mud and. . . ."

"I hate to interrupt the boring travelogue, but I really could use a pee break."

Dorian turned the signal on. "Fortunately, there's a charging station at this exit. I charged the car up not long ago, but it can stand another one." Dorian guided the car smoothly off the highway and decelerated towards the intersection. "I am going to tell you something you're probably not going to like."

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

He brought the car to a stop at a light. "Don't try to get out of the car on your own. You've been in the same position for nearly a full day, and you'll be stiff. Besides, you need to hit reset on your artificial leg; it went to sleep about twelve hours ago."

John slid his hand down the side of his body to find the small control unit for the leg; he pressed the button on the side and felt the distinct but inaudible hum and vibration of the processing core come out of sleep mode. It had taken him the longest time to not get weirded out whenever the leg "fired up", like it was going to start running without any say-so from him. But the new leg that Rudy had made extensive modifications on for him diminished that feeling to a negligible measure; the bionics in it were much more attuned to his movements and control and he felt like it was more part of him than the other one. 

He tested it out. Of course it didn't hurt at all, not even at the insertion point. His other leg, though, was a different story. "Ow. Fuck," he complained, as he lifted it and banged his knee on the console. "That was stupid." His hip, the one jammed up against the seat restraint buckle, felt pins and needles as the blood flowed back into that area. "Man, I was really out of it. Have you taken a break yet?"

"A short one while I charged the car in Tulsa," Dorian said as he drove the car into the service station. "It was a designated contact point Detective Stahl had set up. She sent new coordinates and directions. We are to stay at an FBI safe house on the south side of St. Louis.”

“I completely missed Tulsa,” John said. “When was I last conscious?” He shook his head, clearing away the dizziness and fog.

“We were in Colorado last time you were awake and got out of the car. And you took another pain pill."

"Those things do a real number on me." John pulled on the control that raised the seat back upwards. "Ow, damn. Belly still hurts."

"Which is why you take them. Hang on." Dorian got out of the driver's side and came around the car, and opened the door. "Okay, let's take this very slowly."

John sat up, wincing as he body folded to move out of the car. His artificial leg pulled him up and out as Dorian's hand prevented him from banging his head on the frame. "That's it, nice and slow."

John slowly stood upright, and his vision whited out for a few seconds. "Whoa, head rush."

"Just stand still."

For a minute John leaned heavily against the car and breathed in the cold air; he breathed more deeply each time, which made his head feel much better. Dorian came back from setting the charging unit up for the car. “Ready to walk?”

John nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

They slowly made their way the short distance from the car to the station. John concentrated on lifting his foot, putting it down, pushing off--not shuffling or looking like he could be vulnerable. Dorian opened the door and the clerk greeted them.

"Hey, where's your bathroom?" John asked.

"Back right," the man answered.

Dorian was still holding onto his arm as he turned down the aisle towards the bathrooms. 

"Dorian, it's going to look very suspicious if you continue to hang on to me like this. That guy's gonna get the wrong impression about us."

"John, there is no impression to get," Dorian said. "I am an android. There is no sex."

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure that guy over there has never seen an android like you."

Dorian made an indeterminate noise, which sounded a lot like the indeterminate noise he makes when he's calling bullshit. Nonetheless, he let John go on his own. John took three--four steps, and stumbled. Dorian was there to catch him. "Don't think you're quite ready."

"Yeah, maybe not."

They made it to the bathroom, and Dorian did allow him to shuffle in. "I suggest you use the stall where you can sit rather than chance standing up."

John turned and stared at him, one eyebrow cocked. "Gee, ya think?"

Dorian, despite being a bundle of processors, wires and programming, took the hint and closed the door behind him.

John entered the stall and very slowly lowered the sweat pants he'd been wearing for the last two days. As he sat on the rickety toilet, he sighed. This was his life--a series of police investigations, shootings, injuries, hospitalizations, and now a cross-country race for his life. _Jesus Fucking Christ. How has it come to this?_ He thought he knew people. He thought he could suss out people who were false with him, presented a hypocritical face to him, said lies to him. _Boy, was I wrong!_ Anna had completely and totally duped him. How had that happened? For two years they'd had an intense, passionate relationship. He'd fallen for her; not only was she beautiful, but she had such a beautiful soul. She was open and loving and compassionate. When his mother had died, she was right there, every step of the way. She'd helped him fill out the necessary paperwork, accompanied him to the crematorium, stayed by his side as he greeted friends at the memorial service--

"But never met Aunt Karen and Uncle Mike," he breathed. "They didn't come."

Had he ever talked with Anna about his mother's family? He thought hard about those days. He remembered calling Karen to tell her her older sister had died. But she'd been ill herself. "'I'm so sorry, honey, but I don't think I have the strength to make it out there. I'll pray for her, and for you. Oh, honey, I am so sorry, honey.'" They'd cried a bit together, but he remembered he'd called her at headquarters, not at home.

John rubbed his forehead again. _Maybe Anna didn't know about them_. They'd been consumed with caring for his mom, not really talking about family relations and history. Because his mom had died six months into their relationship. And after her death, they didn't discuss her much, mostly because he'd turned maudlin and morose when they did. Relief flooded through him. _Then Karen, Mike, and the kids are probably safe!_

For the first time since they'd hatched this plan to take him to the land of his mother's family, he thought it might actually work.

He walked with more confidence-- _okay, maybe more like a quicker shuffle_ \--down the aisle, pointedly ignoring the clerk, and out the door. Dorian was waiting beside the car, staring off at something in the distance. The plug in was blinking red, indicating the car was still taking a charge. "That thing working?" John asked. 

"I think the battery is approaching the end of its usefulness. Cap--Sandra mentioned this older model had been out of use for some time. It won't be traced back to...our friends," Dorian said, looking around.

John immediately went on alert. "Anything wrong?" he asked as he reached for the door handle.

"No." But he hesitated, still looking around. "I think it best if you get in right now."

John responded by slowly opening the car and lowered himself into the seat, spinning his legs in. Dorian shut the door, then disconnected the charge.

"You okay? Never seen you like this."

"I know," Dorian replied as he turned on the car. "I'm not sure if I'm functioning at full capacity. It feels very...odd not being connected to the network. I pull constant updates and diagnostics and when I don't or can't, I begin to question myself." He looked at John. "Is that making any sense?"

"Weirdly, yes." And weirdly, John honestly thought that. Dorian may be a logic-based machine, the total sum of his hardware, software, algorithms, but after working with him for the past year, he truly believed Dorian was more than that; Dorian was truly almost human. "Hey, when's the last time you had a full charge?"

"It's been just thirty-nine hours. Hm." Dorian's face lit up for a few seconds. "No wonder. My battery is discharging."

"Well, let's get to where Stahl told us to hunker down for the night. You can plug in and I can get a shower," John said, pulling the seat belt over his body and buckling in. "I stink. Don't know how you've put up with it."

"I turned my olfactory sensors off twenty hours ago," Dorian said. "I thought I'd just let you discover it on your own."

*

The house was in a non-descript neighborhood several miles off the highway system. It was small but sat on a fairly large lot, with a long driveway that permitted the car to be pulled behind the structure, hidden completely from the street. Dorian input the code on the house system pad, the one he'd received from a third-party contact via a text on their burner phone. He'd made John stay in the car while he opened the door, turned on a few lights, and checked the house. 

"Everything looks fine," he said, helping John from the car. "It's even warm inside. Nice of the locals to turn the heat on for you."

"Yeah, that's a nice touch. It's tough traveling with an android that doesn't care what the temperature is." John touched his belly. 

"Hurts? Well, that's what you get for not telling me you were uncomfortable," Dorian said as he pulled the duffle bag out of the trunk.

"Hey, I was out of it for most of those hours. You should thank me."

"Thank you for staying asleep," Dorian said. "It was most pleasant not having to listen to you gripe. Now, will you please shuffle faster so you don't start to shiver?"

Dorian helped him up the three steps to the porch and then into the house. "You know, I don't know what adjustments Rudy made to your programming, but I think you just laid on some sarcasm. Well done."

Dorian's face brightened. "Yes, I believe it was. I shall have to thank him next time we see him."

"If we ever see him again."

"Too bad the surgeon didn't remove your doom and gloom attitude."

John scowled. Sometimes Dorian's upbeat personality was a real pain in the ass. But at this point, he was too tired to try to think up a sarcastic rejoinder. "Just show me to the bathroom."

"Here. Sit." Dorian practically pushed him into a sofa. "I'll dig everything out the bag you'll need for tonight."

John rubbed his hand over his face. "Thanks, Mom."

At last, he was able to take a shower, wash his stinking body and even more stinky hair. The hot water felt heavenly as it sluiced down his skin. He reveled in the feel of the soap as it bubbled up, creating a silky pathway for his hands. Dorian had had to remove the shoulder and abdominal bandages, but the wounds were healed pretty well; no danger of them splitting open again. Truth was, being drugged senseless for several days had done wonders for the healing process, even if the uncomfortable car seat created a creaky knee and sore lower back and a stiff neck. _Can't win at anything these days._ He rubbed the sore hip, the one that dug into the seat belt buckle, then tested his quiescent cock, giving it a few experimental tugs with his soapy hand. _Aw, dude, not you too._ He sighed.

He finished the shower, dried off, brushed his teeth, checked his wounds and then shuffled to the bedroom where Dorian was waiting for him.

"I'm going to rebandage you," he said simply. "Please sit."

"Can I at least get dressed?"

"Oh, yes. Of course."

John sighed as he turned away, dropped the towel to the floor and rummaged through the duffle for underwear. He pulled on briefs, slowly and cautiously, and then found a t-shirt. "Okay, I'm ready now."

"Good."

As he sat on the bed, he swayed. "Jesus, can't believe just getting dressed has wiped me out."

Dorian steadied him with one hand. "It's going to take some time for you to get back up to speed, John. But once we get to where we're headed, you'll be able to do move around more. It'll be good." He pulled and then ripped off a length of medical tape, and then applied a large piece of skin-like covering on his shoulder. "This is looking so much better than the other night."

John recognized Dorian's cheerful and chipper tone, the one he uses when speaking to the distressed and small children. "Yeah, yeah. You gonna be my physiotherapist?"

"If I have to be, yes. I will kick your butt to get you back into shape," Dorian said, smiling. "Now, lay down. I need to cover your abdominal incision and then going to give you half a pain pill because we have to get going pretty early. But once we're on the road, you can take another one and sleep if you like."

John stretched out slowly, first his real leg, the one with the stiff knee, and then pushed himself into bed with the bionic one; it didn't respond as quickly as it usually did. It needed to be charged. "Hey, can you hook up the charger for the bionic unit?"

"Of course." Dorian found the plug-in and hooked it up to John's leg. He busied himself with covering the now pink wound. "Say, do you mind if I stay in here to charge? I can sit on the other bed."

John looked over at the other twin bed, separated by a small table with a lamp. "As long as you don't sing in your sleep. Or talk. Or giggle. God, please do _not_ giggle."

Dorian laughed. "All right. I promise. Actually, I don't do anything while I'm in charging mode. Can't move or hear or see. It's the deep sleep. So. . ." Dorian reached into the bag and handed John his gun. "If we're attacked in the night, you're it. You're the first response."

"Oh, that's just great," John said, pulling the blanket up to his chin. "Then forget the pain pill. Those things put me under, you know that."

"Actually, there are two FBI agents on duty outside," Dorian said calmly. "I saw them as we came in. I was just. . . pulling your leg."

Had he been in a better mood, not tired and hurting, he might have found that a pretty good joke. "Shut up, D."

Dorian plugged the connection into the wall, and then sat down. "That was pretty good, huh? Got ya!"

And as he felt silent, John had to admit it was, and he had been gotten. By an android. With humor. The world was going to hell for sure.

*~*

Police headquarters, The City

“What’s the word, Detective?”

Captain Maldonado sat beside Valerie Stahl’s desk and leaned in. “I’ve received information from Kansas City colleagues that there’s increased activity in several dark organizations in their region.” She stopped as she input commands into the computer. “Dorian and John checked into the St. Louis safehouse in the night.” she said in a low voice.

“Then they need to get moving,” Maldonado said with certainty. She ran her hand over her smooth hair. “How did InSyndicate know? Has Dorian connected to an unsecured network lately?”

Stahl consulted data on her computer again. “No, he hasn’t. The check-in came through St. Louis PD because they received our code. So, in truth, I’m assuming it’s John and Dorian, but I’m pretty sure since it’s our code.”

The captain nodded, her face slack in thought. “Maybe they have a mole?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Well, then, they need to be on the move. Do you trust the security of their network so we can communicate with Dorian?”

“We’ll have to. But I can send a request for security to STPD just in case.”

“No. I don’t want to involve them any more than they are. Go ahead and connect to Dorian. Also, tell him to change to a different credit chip and car. And, plot out a new course for them.” Captain Maldonado stood and checked her watch. “Looks like they’ll be on the road for a while longer.”

*

“John, wake up.”

John felt a hand on his arm and Dorian’s voice in his muddled dreams.

“John, we need to get moving.”

He opened his eyes and his brain snapped into alert mode. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve received new information. InSyndicate operatives have been identified somewhere within fifty miles of us.” Dorian stood and walked to the foot of the bed where the duffle bag was stored. “Orders are to start driving again.”

“But we’re only twelve hours from south Louisiana. What time is it?”

“We only have a few minutes to get out,” Dorian said, walking over to the window and moving the curtain aside. “If you need to do anything, now is the time.”

John ruffled his hair and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Right. Toss me the clean jeans.”

“You ready to wear them?”

“Look, I’ve lost so much weight, I’m worried about them staying up,” John replied as he slowly shuffled to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, they were on the road after bidding their FBI protectors thanks and farewell. 

“You need some food?” Dorian asked. He turned onto a four-lane road and rolled to a stop at the light.

John thought for a moment. “You know, I think I do. I didn’t eat anything yesterday except a protein bar.”

“You need some solid food, then.”

“And coffee.”

“Maybe a cup.”

“A couple. It’ll clear my head.”

“Just one.”

John scowled. “Who made you my coffee nazi?”

“The medic at the safe house. She said to keep the coffee intake to a minimum for at least a month.”

“A month! For fuck’s sake, my head’ll explode.”

“Actually, it won’t.”

“I didn’t mean it literally, asshole. I meant I need the caffeine.”

“You don’t.” Dorian turned again and pulled up to a drive through order window. “Because of the pain medication and IV hydration, your caffeine addiction has been neutralized. “Yes, please. A breakfast burrito--”

“Make it two.”

“Two burritos and a small coffee--black.”

“Large.”

“No, a small is adequate.” Dorian listened to the reply. “Oh, and a yogurt cup. Thanks.”

“Who’s the yogurt for?”

“You. You need to rebuild the microbiome in your gut. The antibiotics you’ve been taking have wiped out all the bacteria that process your food.” Dorian said all of this as he inserted the credit chip into the processor. 

“Great. Next you’re gonna tell me when I need to take a dump.”

“Do you want me to? Because I can.”

John remembered then that Dorian had x-ray vision or something like that. “No. Absolutely not.”

“All right. But trust me, you need the yogurt.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

At the window, a cup of coffee and a bag came through. Dorian took them and passed them to John who said, “What? No thank you.”

“It was a drone bot. No need to thank them.”

Dorian pulled the car away and slid onto the empty road. “It is nice to drive without any traffic,” he mused.

John opened the bag. On top of his wrapped burritos and covered cold cup he found a piece of folded paper with printed instructions. “Change of plan. Head east. We’re going to Louisville and we’ll change cars there.”

Dorian turned the car at the next right. “InSyndicate near?”

“Always.”

 

*~*

_On the road, day 5_

John walked slowly out of the charging station with a large coffee cup and a bag in his hands. “Hey, you got another credit chip in your stash?” he asked in a low voice as he carefully leaned against the car. Dorian was standing at attention, scanning the area. 

“Yes, of course. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. It’s just that that’s the third time I’ve used that chip. Keep things mixed up.”

They were in upstate New York. After a quick nap and charge-up for Dorian at a CIA encampment in rural Pennsylvania, they’d left in the middle of the night, following the maze of blue highways Valerie Stahl had laid out for them and transmitted to Dorian. 

Dorian twitched.

“You okay?” John asked

“Yes.” After a pause, he said, “I’d like to get in a full eight hour charge. I’ve been running on less than full for days.”

“Shouldn’t you be able to go for longer if you’re not expending a lot of energy? Y’know, moving around, running, shooting at bad guys?”

Dorian shook his head. “Not really. My batteries are in use even when I’m doing small movements. Of course, dealing with you takes a lot of emotional energy.”

“Oh, very fucking funny.”

“No really. I’m being serious. Running the complex Synthetic Soul operating system takes a great deal of energy. I have to calculate my responses to you so that they are appropriate and quick.”

“You know, you could just turn that off and not respond to me.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” The car dinged that the battery was charged. “All right. Hey, is that coffee you’re drinking?”

John looked into it. “Maybe?”

“Huh. No maybe about it. Next time I’m going into a store with you. And are those doughnuts in that bag?”

“Uh, sort of?”

Dorian shook his head. “Don’t come crying to me when you’re all clogged up.”

John opened the door and lowered himself into the passenger seat. “Trust me, I won’t.”

 

* _On the road, day 6_

“I don’t like this car.”

Dorian sighed. “You said that about the last car we picked up. Beggars can’t be choosey, John. It’s what the FBI had available for us.”

The car was the smallest of all the vehicles they’d driven. Changing cars had been the plan from the start, but now it was important knowing that InSyndicate was wise to the fact there were on the move. They’d started out in a large, roomy police vehicle. But now they were in a compact where, even with the seat run all the way back, John still found it cramped and uncomfortable. 

“You’d think the FBI could loan us one of their standard issues.”

“Right. It would be like painting a target on the roof in neon pain with the legend ‘Hey! John Kennex is in this car!’” Dorian scoffed. “C’mon, man. Where’s that police training?”

“It left me days ago. I’ve been reduced to kid status. Can’t drive. I have a mom again who tells me what to eat, when I can pee, what--”

“Okay. I’m turning my hearing off, so you can stop being annoying.”

“I’m _annoying_ you? Oh, I can do so much better.”

“Hearing off.”

 

* _On the road, day 7_ *

John fiddled with the car radio. “Shit, man. There is nothing out here.”

“We’re in rural Vermont. Of course there’s nothing on the radio.”

“This is the mid-twenty-first century. There should be something on the band.”

Suddenly, a voice came ringing through. _"Snakes! Brood of vipers! How can you escape being condemned to hell? ... Oh, serpents, oh, vipers' brood, how are you to escape condemnation--_

“Oo-kay! Yeah, that’s no good,” John said, punching the button, and silencing the preacher’s voice. 

“But he was talking about snakes,” Dorian said. “I like snakes.”

“Yeah, not those kind of snakes.”

 

* _On the road, day 9_ *

“Why are we stopped?” John sat up, having had a two-hour nap.

“Traffic jam.”

“Where are we?”

“Just outside of Washington, D. C.”

“Oh, my god. It never changes, does it? It’s always this shitty around D.C.”

“It seems that is true.”

*

“Hey, it’s snowing.”

“Yes, it snows in the mountains.”

“You probably need to slow down.”

Dorian gave John the side-eye. “Would you like to drive?”

“Actually, I would.”

“Not a chance.”

John sat back in the seat with a huff and folded his arms across his chest. “Spoil sport.”

Dorian grinned. “At least you didn’t call me an ‘asshole’ this time.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re an asshole.”

“And there it is, that rapier wit.”

“Shut up.”

 

* _On the road, day 10_

“Wow, it’s actually warm,” John exclaimed as they stopped at a charging station. He stood slowly and stretched. “Ouch. I’m really sick of this damn thing hurting every time I move.”

“Once we get to where you’re not sitting all the time, it’ll get better,” Dorian replied. He looked around, scanning the area for any tell-tale sign of followers, stalkers, or saboteurs.

“Really? Thanks for that news flash.” John started toward the small convenience store.

“John,” Dorian said softly, “this is a secure network site.”

John looked around, and sure enough, the small blue logo of law enforcement secure network was displayed amidst other stickers in the window of the store. “Lemme pee and get some food and I’ll stand guard while you connect, okay?”

“It’s a plan.”

John quickly concluded his business including purchasing a sandwich and an apple along with bottle of cold tea. _That’ll make Dorian happy._ He strode out of the store, realizing that for the first time in a long time, the incision in his belly didn’t hurt as much. “Okay, I’m here,” he said.

Dorian reached into the car and surreptitiously handed him the big Glock. Privately, he thought it was a bit much, but it was John’s preferred personal-carry weapon. John pushed the gun into the small of his back, then leaned against the car, unwrapping his sandwich. “You need to go inside?”

“No, just let me sit in the back seat. This won’t take long.”

John looked around at the brown landscape of northern Alabama. They’d been on the road for ten days straight, and were now criss-crossing states along the eastern seaboard. They’d been able to stop three of those days, getting a full eight hours sleep and charge on just one of those days, and then preferring to travel at night when traffic was low. Dorian had been getting twitchier, not being able to get the full charge he desperately needed. But the synthetic assured him that he was still operating within normal parameters of his programming and operating specs.

Dorian’s profile lit up as he connected, his face a study in concentration. After just several seconds the “disco” light stopped and he got out of the car.

“Well, it seems for the moment, we have thrown our pursuers off our trail. But we should be cautious.” He scanned the area, still connected to the network. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to download a few updates from IT.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need, man.” John took a long drink from the bottle. “I think I might walk around a little after I finish my sandwich.”

“That is a very good idea. You need to stretch that scar before it puckers even more.” With that, Dorian crawled back into the car, and became still.

“How the hell did--Hey! I told you no x-ray vision!”

 

III.

The final push to south Louisiana took another ten hours, with a looping route through Alabama and Mississippi, two of the most uninteresting states in the winter months. Mile upon mile of brown fields, trees, shrubs and houses. The pine forests of the north reaches of the states provided some green relief. Small towns, most without even a stop light, broke up the monotony of the barren landscapes.

Finally, they entered the state of Louisiana via I-55 south and turned onto, briefly, a congested I-10 east, heading towards the connector that would take them even further south. 

“My god, where are all of these people going?” John said, finishing off a milkshake he’d picked up at a charging stop in Hammond. 

“Probably New Orleans. It is Friday after all,” Dorian replied.

“Why don’t we go there for the weekend, too?”

“That is not in our itinerary.”

“But it would really throw the bad guys off.”

“We are in the clear for the moment and under orders to get to the station house in Dulac.”

John sat back and pouted just a little. “Fine. Be that way. Just like an MX.”

Dorian shook his head. “Was that supposed to be an insult? Comparing my orders to a slavish, unimaginative _synthetic_? Because this isn’t me; this is the Captain. Look, I’d like to go to New Orleans, too, but there is a larger issue at play here, namely, your safety. How about I dump you in Dulac and then I go to New Orleans?”

John turned and blinked. “Wow. Are you mad?”

Dorian, if he breathed, would’ve huffed a breath. “No, I think you’ve lost sight of what’s going on. You’re complacent. You’re forgetting what’s going on here.”

John rubbed his stomach and his shoulder twinged. “No, I haven’t,” he replied softly. “I know what’s going on.”

Dorian reached out and touched John’s forearm. “I know it hasn’t been fun, and you’re bored and sick to death of riding in a too-small car. But we’re almost there.”

John grinned. “Are we there yet? Used to drive my dad crazy asking him that when we went on vacation.”

“We’re almost there yet. Hang on.”

“What would help me hang on is if I could get another one of these.” He shook the empty milkshake cup.

Dorian nodded. “Just as soon as we’re out of traffic.”

*

They pulled up to the small brick, one-story building that was built at least three feet up off the ground. The parking lot was nothing more than white shells that crunched loudly. And, it was raining. Hard.

“So much for a quiet arrival,” Dorian said. “This is it.”

“That’s what the sign says,” John replied. He tried to sit up, but found, he was stiff and sore. “Amazing how quickly I can seize up like this.”

“Ah, a welcoming party.”

The deputy, a fresh-faced kid with acne and a too big nose, wearing a black slicker walked up and knocked on Dorian’s window. "Y'all must be important,” he said when the glass came down. “Chief said to bring y'all through the back door. Need help with anything?"

"No, I can get it," Dorian said. "If you could, please help Detective Kennex out of the car. He was shot in the line of duty not long ago and still needs assistance."

"Shore thang."

"Jesus, D, I'm fine," Kennex groused. But when the kid pulled the door open, John was glad for the help. His core and leg muscles protested the sudden need to work. For a skinny one, the kid had some strength. Before he knew it, he was out of the car and getting soaked thoroughly.

"Let's go." The kid took his arm and hauled him quickly through the rain and up the stairs to a small covered porch attached to the building. "Everything around here is built up off the ground," the kid offered as an explanation. "If not, we'd be squeegeeing out the squad room about now." 

John stepped into a brightly lit hallway that led to an open room with desks and smart boards much like the ones he'd left. Only on a much smaller scale. "Boss! They're here!"

A tall, bald African-American man came out of a side office. "Well, Raymond, why don't you just say that a little louder? I don't think they heard you down on the bayou."

"Sorry, sir," the kid muttered. He took off his wide brimmed deputy hat and flung the rain onto the floor, and his captain. 

"Dammit, boy," he said. "Go get some coffee."

"What about being out on patrol?"

"Everyone's out. I need you to man the phones."

"Aww, Chief. I hate doin' the phones."

"Tough shit." Just then the phone rang. "Go."  The young deputy scampered off to the front desk. "Sorry about that. Raymond just got out of the police academy like a month ago. I'm still breaking him in."

"We've all been there. John Kennex. And Dorian." He looked around. "Where is he?" Then it dawned on  him. "You know, he's not doing real well due to not being charged up fully. I'll go find him."

"Nah, you sit. Bert Doucet," the captain said. "Heard you were shot not long ago." He pulled on a slicker and a hat.

John gratefully sat in a chair. "Thanks. Yeah, and riding around in a car for three and a half days hasn't exactly done wonders for my endurance. If we’d been able to come hear straight from St. Louis it would’ve been fine. But we had to take the long, scenic route by way of a grand tour of the East coast and just about everywhere in between to throw the bad guys off. We’ve been on the road constantly. Changed cars four times. Haven’t stopped long enough anywhere to allow my DRN unit to charge.”

The captain went off in search of Dorian while John listened to a comical discussion Raymond was having with someone on the phone. "No, we don' come out and catch alligators during a rainstorm. Jest let it be and it'll go back to the bayou when the water drains. Lordy, Duane, use your haid."

"Is this yours?"

John turned to find an utterly soaked Dorian. "You all right?"

Water streamed down Dorian’s face., "Why, yes, I'm just fine. I brought all of your crap out of the back of the car, you’re welcome, and then stood at the back door, feeling forgotten and abandoned." Dorian dropped the duffel bag and a few items of clothing--a t-shirt, hoodie, sweats, a couple of wrappers from Little Debbie snacks--onto the floor in front of him.

"Hoookay," Capt. Doucet said. "Son, I have a charging alcove with your name on it."

"Thank you. That's the nicest thing any human has said to me all day."

John thought about protesting, but decided that would just egg the android on. "Sorry, D. Thought you were right behind us."

Doucet led Dorian to a small office to the side. "We had a DRN unit about six years ago. Really liked him. Did a great Cajun accent and was really popular with the school kids and some of the old folks around here. Unfortunately, he got eaten by an alligator one night and the folks in New Orleans couldn't put him back together."

"Eaten?" Dorian asked. "He should've been able to take on an animal."

"Wellll, some of the guys didn't like having the synthetic around, so they shut him off before they pitched him off the boat and into the swamp."

Dorian looked around. "You don't have any AI units?"

"Sure. Got two MXs, but they just aren't the same. They're off doing duty with my other deputies." He held out a hand, beckoning Dorian to step into the charging unit. "I'm real happy to see you, though. I hope they'll make some more DRNs sometime."

"I do too, but unlikely." Dorian settled in as the captain threw the switch. Dorian's face went slack as the unit glowed softly.

"Thanks, man," John said, watching Dorian as if in sleep. "He was starting to get a little emotional. He actually got mad at me."

"I remember our DRN would get that way, too, if he'd pulled too many shifts in a row. Being a small outfit, we sometimes have to rely on our technical brothers to fill in the gaps. The MXs do all right, but the public doesn't trust 'em. So, how about you? Want some dinner?"

John rubbed his belly. "Yeah, I'd murder a burger."

"Good thing I got this boy. 'Bout all he's good for." The captain walked up to the front, said something to the young deputy, handed him a credit stick, and Raymond got to his feet and walked out.

"He'll be back in about twenty minutes. I'll call Hector and let him know he's coming. Burger, everything?"

"Sounds great."

"In the meantime, I have some orders for you that came in right before you showed up." John followed the genial captain to his office. "I'm gonna call our tech guy and get him to beef up our network security so your DRN unit can update his files. In the morning, of course. You can go back to the on-call room and put your feet up, read that document until the boy comes back with our food."

John held out his hand. "You've been too kind. Thank you for everything."

Doucet shook it. "Brothers in blue."

John picked up the duffel and clothes, tossed the wrappers in the trash can, and headed down the hall to the spartan on-call room. Two sets of bunk beds, a desk and a bank of lockers greeted him. A stack of blankets sat on the foot of one of the lower beds. John sat, pulled a blanket around his shoulders, and sank into the bed; he turned on the light beside it and looked at the tablet. He made it through most of the pages before the words swam and his eyelids dropped. He struggled to stay awake, but the siren call of a soft pillow and to stretch out his legs was too much to resist. Even food.

The captain found John deeply asleep, and put his burger in the fridge.

*

“He's taken good care of me so far. It'll be fine."

"Thank you for saying so," came Dorian's voice from behind them.

"D! Hey, you're charged up. Come meet my aunt and uncle," John said,

Watching Dorian interact with his relatives was interesting. Karen was much more wary than Mike, but Mike had worked with DRNs and knew what they were capable of. Karen was quizzing him on his medical field training and martial arts skills, both of which she knew damn well he had because, hey, police androids were required to have all that and more. 

"Trust me, Ms. Trepaingner, I can handle anything that comes my way, and that includes your nephew being a stubborn ass," Dorian said with that dazzling smile.

"You two have spent a lot of time together," Mike commented. "Partners, if they're good together, know the other's strengths, weaknesses and quirks. Kind of like a marriage."

"Oh, don't you trot out that marriage analogy," Karen replied. "You had two partners your entire career, and one turned out to be an alcoholic."

"Never claimed to know all his quirks when he was off-duty. So, Dorian, you could do a bit of surgery on Johnny if need be?"

"If I have to, and he for me. Though the last time he tried to put my head back together with used chewing gum and dental floss."

"That's just too gross," Karen said. 

"Just think how I felt," Dorian said.

 _Okay, they're straying into 'John's an idiot' territory._ "Um, look, guys, I think we need to get a move on," he said. "It'd be nice if we could get to our safe house before it gets much later.."

"John, we brought food and drink and other supplies for you: towels, blankets and pillows. A couple of lanterns. Fuel for the generator," Mike said. 

"Wait," John said, "you brought all this? Who told you to do that?"

"Well, Sandra said you'd need some things, so I told her we'd take care of it," Karen said. "And before you get upset with us, she vouchered some credits to us. You've got enough food for about a week, maybe 10 days. After that, we'll send another boat out."

"All right," John said, incredibly grateful to them for offering to purchase supplies for them. "We'll talk details once this thing is over with."

"Before we go, I would really like to update," Dorian said. "The network administrator was just here and she said I'm safe to do so."

"Then do it."

Dorian went to stand over to one side. His face lit up with the cool blue pattern of light that indicated Dorian was connecting to the network actively to access the mainframe. Sometimes, when he was frustrated and his tablet wasn't connecting to the network, he envied Dorian's ability to pull information so quickly. 

"John, you're sure you'll be all right?" Karen asked, her face lined with worry.

"I am. It's the only way to keep me and you guys safe from these bastards. I am so ready for all this to be over."

"We know you are, and so are your colleagues," Mike said. "Sandra gave me the run-down and I have every confidence they will get to the bottom of the leak. I've asked around; she's very impressive. Very competent."

"That she is."

"Well, then I'll tell you this right now," Mike said, coming closer and putting his arms around him to speak directly into his ear. "You're not going to our camp. There's an FBI team outside ready to transport you only to the dock. We don't know where it is, other than it's a different one, down a different canal. Dorian is receiving the changes and final coordinates of the location. Not even the FBI knows where it is. Dorian will know where the supply drop is in case you go into additional time. We're disappearing for the next two weeks, traveling under different names. Dorian has our number. And no one here in this department knows anything. Captain Doucet is FBI as is the young deputy. They're gone." He hugged John. "It's time to go now."

John held onto Mike and drew Karen close. "Thank you, for everything."

"We love you, John," she said. "Dorian has all the information now. And lots more that we don't know. We're safe, so now it's up to you to stay safe, too."

"I will. I promise."

"When this is over, we'll have you to the house for dinner. Big party with your cousins, who would love to see you," Karen said. 

"Me, too."

Mike slapped his good shoulder. "God bless." Then they turned and walked away.

He looked up to see Dorian coming at him, looking more confident and determined than he had in several days. "Feel better?"

Dorian nodded. "You have no idea how good it was to reboot several key systems."

"And you have all the information?"

"Yes. I can run my location system until we arrive at our destination. But we need to leave right now, before the next shift of officers come on duty."

"Let's roll."

Grabbing his duffle bag, they exited out the back door, where two men in combat black met them. "Detective, sir," they said, "we have your weapons. We're to transport you to the drop off point."

"No, change of plans," Dorian said with authority. "My authorization code is 2-8-Tango-Delta."

One of the officers nodded. "Then good journeys to you."

Dorian led John to a different car; the one they had driven across the country was gone. "Hey, D! Where's the captain's car?"

"Best not to ask that question," he said, getting into the driver's side. "The  name of the game now is subterfuge."

"Hasn't that been the game all along?"

"Yes, but now we want to cover our tracks completely. Disappear into the swamp. Go off the grid."

"Can you do that?"

Dorian started the car. "For short periods. But there's a plan for that. Because where we're going, there's nothing--no wireless, no network. Nothing. There is no grid."

"How far is it?"

"Pretty far."

 _Great._ Knowing they weren't going to the Trepaniger's camp came as a relief to him. It was actually fairly close to the inlet to Lake DeCade, but now he was curious about their actual location. They got into a car, one left for them by the FBI agents. Dorian drove out onto the highway, but instead of turning right, he turned left and headed back the way they came in.

"Before you say anything," Dorian cut in, "I know precisely where we're going. And I'm going to complete my sweep of this vehicle before I say anything more. I wanted to get away from the sheriff's department."

"Okay."

With Dorian in charge, John sat back. It bothered him a little that he wasn't in the loop like he used to be. But this was an extraordinary circumstance. He was still recovering from his wounds and surgery, and just wasn’t on his game yet. Dorian had everything about their whereabouts inside his circuitry. His mother had often said he needed to trust the system and have faith that everything would work out in the end. Well, that hadn't worked out too well for his dad. And the system that was supposed to be secure, the one that kept him and his colleagues safe, had been breached somehow. _Never trust the system,_ he thought. The only thing he could do now was to have _faith_ that Dorian had not been corrupted by the same forces that had invaded their fortress. He had to have _faith_ in the same technology that had led to his father's discommendation and his death, the same technology that was supposed to keep him alive.

"Okay, our car is free of any communication devices," he said. "We are heading towards Calliou Lake. That’s south of Lake DeCade. Do you know where that is?"

"Not a clue. I’ve only been to the north shore of DeCade, I have no idea where this is."

"Good thing you have me, then," Dorian said with a smile. "Relax. I've got this."

John didn't reply, but hell if he didn't relax even more. He felt rather than saw that Dorian made several right hand turns and they were heading north. They drove back through the city of Houma, out past the small neighborhoods that dotted the landscape, land once used to grow sugar cane and rice and soy beans, and then turned south onto Hwy 315. Because he'd had to slow considerably to avoid their brains rattled by the poor condition of the roads, it took a good forty-five minutes to arrive at TJ's Marina. 

The marina was nothing more than a tin shack and a dock on the bayou at the end of the highway. Tied to one end was a boat, somewhat larger than the traditional john boat the folks in these parts tended to favor, and a seriously powered outboard motor.

"John, I'm going to load up all our supplies, put the car in an unobtrusive place, and fill the cooler with ice," Dorian said as he unbuckled himself. "According to our instructions, TJ only knows us as Karl and Chris and we're headed out to go fishing for a week at a camp owned by Shell Oil. Of course, none of that is true."

"Of course," John replied. "I guess I'll make contact?"

"Yes. Are you Karl or Chris?"

"Guess I'll be Karl."

"Great."

With their duties divvied out and story straight, John alighted from the car and watched as Dorian drove off down the road a little further towards a non-descript metal building with two huge round storage tanks; beyond, there were three huge shrimping boats tied up along the squib of land that jutted out into the water. He turned and walked to the opposite side of the road where TJ's shack stood. The door was open and Cajun music floated out from behind the counter.  An old man sat reading a newspaper.

"Hey, are you TJ?"

"Nah, I'm BJ, but I knows TJ. Wha’ can I do ya for?"

"I'm Karl, and I'm here to pick up that boat tied to your dock."

"You one of them earl people?"

John thought for a second, deciphering the man's heavy accent. _Ah._ "Yeah. My buddy and me are heading out to the Shell camp."

"Yep, heard about y'all. Fishin’s real good right now." He stood and leaned over to retrieve a battered notebook and a metal box. "Now, need y'all to sign here, and then here's the key to that there motor."

He handed John a ring with three keys and a bottle opener. "Most important key there is the church key."

John looked at it. "Church key?"

The old man grinned. "The one that opens your soul to paradise."

John got the joke--the bottle opener. "Damn right about that."

"Now, y'all know where you're heading? 'Cause you can get right lost and go down the wrong bayou and then where'd you be?"

"Down the wrong bayou. I think we got this. Chris is pretty good with a GPS."  John finished signing his name ( _Karl Urban_ , the last name from some singer he'd heard on the radio while they were driving), messily and unreadable. "Thanks for keeping the boat for  us."

"You got it."

John exited the building and looked around. He saw Dorian jogging up the road at a normal pace, probably not to call any attention to himself. "Ready?"

Dorian didn't respond, but joined him as they walked to the boat. John handed him the keys and took a seat near the front next to one of the large boxes of supplies. "Think this thing will make it?" John asked. "We seem to be really loaded down."

"We'll see," Dorian said, priming the pump in the motor and then firing it up. The motor made a deep cough as it sprung to life; after a few seconds the electric motor engaged and the sound dropped to dull throb. "We have to go at wake speed down the bayou, but once we hit the lake we can open it up."

John nodded and sat back. At a slow putter, the ride down the bayou was pleasant; tall grasses on either side waved in the swelling water. An egret stood sentry-like on a partially submerged log; turtles, large and small, occupied logs everywhere; a fish jumped out of the water. Dorian bumped up the speed as the bayou widened. "Another couple of kilometers and we'll be into the lake," Dorian said over the whine of the motor. "And then it's eight kilometers and down another bayou to the camp."

John hadn't considered the fact they were going to be on open water for that much time. He hunched down into the boat a little further, pushing his back up against supplies. Dorian slowed the boat.

"Do you want to get another jacket out of the duffle?" Dorian asked. "How are you feeling?"

"It's a little chilly, so yeah, lemme get a jacket. And a blanket"

John opened the duffle next to him and quickly found a jacket Sandra had brought him from the station. It wasn't his and was considerably larger, but that didn't matter. He slipped it on, zipped up the bag, and signaled to Dorian to get a move on. He rummaged in the box in front of him for a wool blanket and wrapped that around his body. Within a few minutes, they entered Lake Calliou, and Dorian opened the motor. John drew the blanket up around his head; if he could've rolled over on the hard metal seat he would've, but with a protesting body and him just being too tall to fit, he closed his eyes and dealt with the wind howling past him. Dorian, though, looked like he was enjoying the ride.

_Of course he is. Damn android._

The winter sun hung low and clouds built in around it; the wind was, fortunately, no more than a breeze which kept the open water of Lake Calliou fairly slack. But even this far south, it was cold in the stream of wind made by the boat. He kept his head down, eyes closed and arms wrapped around his body. After a few minutes, with the blanket covering his face, he fell asleep. 

*

"Hey, turtle man," Dorian said, as the motor dropped to a quieter putter. "We're nearly there."

John hazarded a glance. They'd entered a narrow channel, filled with trees and other low-growing bushy stuff. He'd been concerned the house would be out in the open, much like he'd seen on the drive down, but this was a welcome surprise. The trees here were old, twisted, and filled with Spanish moss; they were also fully leafed out, though he thought cypress may be an evergreen species. He unfolded himself and stretched his back and shoulders. The injured one twinged, but not badly. Perhaps he wasn't going to be a walking pain after all. 

"This is nice."

"It is," Dorian said. "We entered this bottomland hardwood forest right when we left the lake. There are some spectacular trees along the shoreline."

They continued to putter up the bayou and then Dorian turned to the right into an even more narrow bayou. There, a long, covered dock with a long set of stairs led up to a small cabin on heavy poles that put it a good ten meters above the ground, sat. "This is the place. Camp Nowhere," Dorian said.

"No shit. Who owns this?"

"Just a second," Dorian said. His face lit up and then he smiled. "I've turned off my GPS, so now I can tell you. This house belongs to a friend of the father of a fellow detective of your uncle's. He's out of the country right now and this friend had the keys. So no one except that friend knows where this place is, and no one is going to figure out how we got here."

"It kind of hurt just to figure out that relationship," John said, relaxing. "Well, I guess we should unload. Doesn't look like the lap of luxury."

"No, it's a fishing cabin. The basics are here. I think there is a privy out back and the stove is run by propane and solar. Other than that, we are truly in the middle of nowhere." Dorian killed the motor, brought the boat up alongside the dock and then nimbly jumped out to tie the craft off.

“Once you get the door open, I'll start bringing up the supplies," Dorian says, giving him a hand. "Take it slow."

"Yes, Mom."

"You know, that joke wore out about five thousand kilometers ago."

 _I live to annoy you_ , John thought with a grin. "Yeah, yeah. But it's still a good one."

"If you say so."

John's android leg powered his self up the stairs. The other knee and thigh were still stiff and hurting, as well as his replacement shoulder. Maybe Dorian could help him with that. He'd need the shoulder to perform at one-hundred percent since it was his shooting arm. 

The cabin was one-story built of cypress planks. The front porch ran the length of the cabin; the overhang helped shade the two windows. He inserted the key and the lock opened, but the door did not. Steadying himself by gripping the door jamb, he kicked it with his artificial leg and it flew open with a bang. The cabin, such as it was, was an efficient two-room set up: kitchen with a small square table and three metal folding chairs and a metal wire shelving unit with a few pots and pans; a loveseat and chair, and a door that led, hopefully, to a bedroom. He crossed the small space and opened the interior door. Yep, two sets of bunk beds, two windows, not much floor space. He re-entered the living area and noted another door on the opposite wall led to the back porch; it, too, had an overhang to protect the windows on that side.

Dorian entered behind him, loaded down with a big cooler and two large boxes. "Can I help?" John asked.

"Tell me where to put these things."

"Um, I guess right here."

Dorian put them all down, and opened one of the boxes. 

John came over to stand beside him. "Ooh, hey, peanut butter and crackers. Soup cans. Beans and rice. Noodles. Basics."

"Glad you like it," Dorian said. "If you can handle it, unload these things. If you can't, then I can do it later."

John nodded, slightly annoyed. "I can do it, thanks. I'm not an invalid."

"Uh, yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Are too."

"Get out of here."

"Aye, aye, sir."

John shook his head as Dorian left to retrieve more supplies. "Cheeky shit." And he set himself to his task.

 

*

After settling in and checking out the primitive facilities, John found the only comfortable chair and sat down. He opened the window to allow the cool breeze to enter and hopefully, blow away the musty odor of the too-long closed up house. He could hear Dorian crashing through the underbrush that covered the smallest spit of land. They were truly surrounded by water and cypress trees and other swamp botanicals that he couldn’t name. Dorian assured him theirs was the only structure for miles. Which made it perfect for hiding out.

Dorian was still acting not normal. Despite a good charge at the sheriff’s station and updating his software, he still exhibited the odd twitch or two. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t connected to the network, receiving a constant stream of information. He’d been like this the entire trip. All of these combined with his unique programming made the DRN line a little quirky anyway. Still, all in all, John had to admit--only to himself, of course--that Dorian was a good companion, a good partner with which to do detective work, even to trip across the continent. But he’d never admit his opinion out loud, especially not to Dorian.

John slowly sat up, and then lowered his torso back down. The belly incision was feeling achy, and his shoulder had started throbbing after he had moved several boxes of canned goods to the shelving unit beside the sink. Then, to make it just that much worse, his knee continued to ache. It was taking so much longer to recover than in the past. Then he remembered the last time he’d been shot he’d been in a coma for months _No wonder I don’t remember. Idiot._ Fortunately, the chair was beside a faded, thread-bare sofa, and on the sofa was his duffle bag, and in the duffle was his pain meds. _What is my pain assessment from one to ten?_ he thought. _About an eight. I think I’ll take a pain pill._

And a nap.

He rose from the chair after finding the meds bottle and shuffled to three meters to the shelving unit for a bottle of water. After downing a pill, he turned and entered a small bedroom just beyond the living area. It was even smaller. Two windows, front and back, allowed light to come through, which, John considered was a pretty good deal. He pulled on the cord of the plastic blinds, a hold-over from long-ago, and they fell, landing perfectly just above the sill.

He surveyed the bunk bed units on either side of the room. As a kid, he’d always claimed the top bunk at Mike’s camp. It was just so different from his bed at home, being so far off the ground and accessible by the ladder on the end. Once, he’d awaked with his right leg and arm hanging off the side. From then on, he’d slept close to the wall. But today, he tested the mattress on the lower bunk. Finding it at least acceptable, he looked around and found the box with linens and pillows Dorian had deposited on the opposite bed. He pulled out the sheets and looked at the bottom one with elastic corners. After trying to lean over to catch the farthest corner and feeling like his innards were going to come spilling out, he gave up. He threw the blanket down on top of the bare mattress, then a pillow, and eased himself down. He rolled over. _This isn’t too bad_ , he thought. And then fell asleep.

*

Dorian completed one full circuit of the perimeter of the property. Not that there was a lot of property to walk. Part of the “land” consisted of a boggy mess of mud and other organic material he couldn’t identify. He missed his ability to connect to the network on a whim. His internal database, which he’d always thought was extensive, could not correctly identify the plants he saw before him and it made him wonder what else he was missing. He knew his memory banks were filled mostly with forensic analysis information and algorithms for assessing situations, which had always served him and his human partners well. But natural history? Not so much, apparently. For now, he had to be content with storing all the physical, chemical, and observational data he’d collected: four species of trees, ten types of scrubby grasses and weeds, eight different kinds of birds (four of which were waterfowl), seven reptiles and amphibians, and two hundred and thirty eight bugs and small invertebrates. He counted five alligators, four of which were underwater or nestled into the mud. For it being late winter and rather chilly, he found it curious that so many reptiles were moving about. His memory told him most reptiles went dormant in a kind of torpor when the temperatures dipped below a certain level. He recorded the ambient air temperature to be nine-point-four Celcius, and even chillier with the high humidity, but it seemed not to make a different to the gators and turtles. The sun was barely making a difference even in the places where it was shining through breaks in the heavy clouds. 

He was especially pleased that the cabin was completely shaded by water oak and cypress, heavily laced with Spanish moss. The canopy was dense enough to obscure most of the small structure from any surveillance satellites and maybe even low-flying drones. All the better to keep John Kennex safe.

He stumbled. He scanned the ground and found the root of a tree barely poking up out of the dirt. Then his leg stomped twice. Both were signs that the program running his body and his limbs was misfiring. It was worrying, or rather he would worry, if he were human. But it did give him pause.

*~*

To pass the time, Dorian took on the role of head chef and housekeeper. Cooking with canned food was a challenge to make palatable though John didn’t seem to mind too much. Dorian found under the house in an alcove inset between the floor joints some animal traps of all sizes; he set a couple of small ones and caught a rabbit on the second day. On the third day, he noticed a cut-out in the ceiling in the bedroom; he climbed up the bunk and pushed on the thin plywood covering it. “Hey, think I found some stuff.”

He pulled down two fishing poles, both with rusty spin casting reels and a battered tackle box. “These are fishing poles, right?”

“Yep,” John replied. “Wow, I haven’t been fishing in forever.”

“You used to fish?”

“My dad and I did, and of course we always fished when we came to visit Uncle Mike.” He sat down at the small card table on a folding chair and started testing the thin plastic line for strength, and assessed the condition of the reels. “With a little work, I think I can get these things to work for us.”

John could see Dorian accessing his internal databases for information as he held the pole in his hands. It still astounded him when the android couldn’t recognize something as basic as a fishing pole.

“Ah, yes. The line is very thin plastic but has great tensile strength,” Dorian said. His temple lit up dimly as he applied his analytical program. “The hook is still very sharp. Yes, I believe you will be able to catch fish with this.”

“First, though, need to get this casting reel to work better. Hand me the olive oil bottle.”

For the next hour, John worked at making the reel spin smoothly while Dorian sorted through the objects in the tackle box. “Lots of useful things in there,” John commented. “Bobbers, worms, a couple of flies. And some more hooks. Pliers! Hey, we’re good to go.” He attached a red and white plastic bobber to the line. “But, we need some bait, like some worms, smaller fish, something like that.”

“I believe I can assist,” Dorian said, and he left the cabin.

“Hey, D!” John called from the open door. “Check for alligators, will ya?”

Dorian did a quick scan of the surrounding water. “I don’t detect the presence of any large reptiles, save for the snapping turtle under the deck.”

“Ah, he hasn’t moved since we arrived. This won’t bug him a bit.”

“He won’t leave until you stop feeding him half of your dinner.”

“You give me too much!” John shot back. “The cooler is already full with food we have to keep cold. Throwing it out would be wasteful.”

Dorian stared at him for a beat. “And giving it to a _turtle_ constitutes ‘not being wasteful’? If I was human, I would roll my eye at that logic. Fine, then. I’ll try to restrain myself from giving you the portions of food I’ve recorded you’ve been eating for the past year.”

John grinned. “I’m not quite back to my old self. Soon, but not yet. If I eat too much, my stomach hurts.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“Didn’t want to hurt your feelings, man.”

Dorian did roll his eyes at that. “John, even though my programming allows me to express and understand feelings, I don’t actually _feel_ anything and therefore cannot feel ‘hurt’.

“Well, excuse me for forgetting.” And John did feel sheepish for forgetting his companion on this journey was actually a robot. Android. Synthetic. _Whatever!_ He shook his head as he returned to the table to finish outfitting one of the rods. Giving the knot on the hook a final test, he stood and picked up the tackle box. “Let’s see if I can entice a fish to come to dinner.”

He started down the steps to the dock on the water, and grimaced as his knee protested. Dorian had been rubbing the tendons around it, icing then warming it with the heaters (well, not really heaters, per se) in his hands. It helped him to get to sleep. “Just another sign I’m getting old,” John had groused. But spending the past weeks in the company of Dorian, John had been fighting a nagging, deepening feeling of respect and--dare he even admit it, even in thought?--affection for his synthetic partner. He’d always thought himself to be a rational person, not easily given to emotional thoughts and tendencies. His relationship with Anne had broken wide open his heart and his need to give and receive love. Her betrayal his him hard, _so fucking hard_. The sessions with the Recollectionist doctor had laid bare his complex feelings so completely--he loved her, but now despised her; he’d trusted her, but her betrayal had wounded him to the core. One part of him wanted to kill her, but the other wanted to beg her to confess everything, apologize, and take him back. But he knew that would not be even remotely possible; she was a terrorist, possibly even a mastermind of InSyndicate. Their time together was over. She had killed in him all desire for love, friendship, trust, affection--everything that had to do with being open with another human being. It had everything to do with him being a bastard to everyone.

And yet--

The niggling, tickling, annoying feeling that had popped up unexpected, unbidden, and unwelcome during their wanderings through the country had set up a place in his heart that he could not forget nor ignore. It had been just after he’d awakened from a nap; Dorian was driving, and he had sat up, struggling still with pain and loss of muscle tone. There in the cup holder was a cup of coffee from a charging station. He had kept it hot while he’d slept; beside it was a blueberry muffin, homemade. John had devoured the muffin and drunk the coffee. Dorian hadn’t said a word; but the moment after John had finished the food with a sigh, Dorian had looked at him, and had given him a smile, a smile so sweet it had gotten under his skin. The _care_ Dorian had given him since the day he’d been shot and gravely wounded again made him crave it, made him realize that was what he missed most about being in a relationship--simple care, given and received. His parents had loved him unconditionally, but they had cared for and about him--when he’d been sick or down or upset or joyful. They’d cared for and about him even when he’d gotten into trouble at school or failed a test or been a shit. He missed being _something_ to someone, the focus of someone’s attention. He missed someone giving a damn about him. He’s been on his own for the past two years, and he was empty. Bereft.

And yet, here was Dorian, taking care of him in all ways, giving him everything he craved: care, compassion, friendship.

Now deep in the watery recesses of south Louisiana, John watched as Dorian continued his patrol of the immediate area, aware only of John’s lack of fresh food and the need to find bait for his fishing hook. A highly technical artificial lifeform programmed for advanced, complex forensic work, was looking for grubs and worms.

Then, Dorian stumbled.

John was taken aback. It was completely unlike Dorian to stumble. The android stopped and looked back, then shook his leg, shrugged and walked on. 

The small generator they found at the cabin was solar powered, which on any given day in south Louisiana would be fine during the summer when most hunters and fishermen would go to their bayou camps. Since they’d arrived, the weather had been overcast, misty, unrelentingly gray. The sun shone weakly at best during the short periods when the clouds broke up. Dorian had moved the solar panels several times to try to position them best to catch the light; but the battery never really charged. The fuel they’d brought with them was quickly running low, and John knew it wouldn’t last the week.

Dorian returned to the cabin, holding out his hand. He walked up to John and showed him four wriggling brown worms. “This was all I could find at the moment. I think I need to hook myself up to the generator for a while. At least there’s a little sunlight coming through.

“Yeah, sure, buddy.”

Dorian looked at the sky. “I am certain we are still safe, but don’t hesitate to call me if you get into trouble.” He put his clean hand on John’s shoulder.

“I will.”

*~*

_The City Police Headquarters_

“How are our boys?” Captain Sandra Maldonado said in a low voice and then took a sip of coffee.

Valerie Stahl barely glanced up from her laptop, but was fully aware of the importance of the question. “Not since the CIA confirmed they made it to their destination, and they were not followed, except by one of their surveillance drones.” She frowned. “Rudy is concerned about Dorian not being able to get a full charge out there, and wants us to consider sending more fuel. The weather has been cloudy so he knows the generator isn’t charging. Also, there are two storms coming in, from the west, and one from the south. They’ll collide right over their region and it should happen soon. Lots of rain predicted.”

“Great. That won’t help the situation any.”

“Well, in a way it will.” Stahl input a command and a weather map came up on screen. “It’ll keep drones from flying so little to no chance of surveillance. We can get one of the agencies to drop in fuel bottles.”

“Do we risk connecting to Dorian to let him know about the weather and the fuel?”

Stahl put the radar into motion. “Looks like it’s coming in fast, maybe in the next ten to eighteen hours. We probably should do something now before it hits.”

Maldonado looked around. “Okay, make it happen.”

Stahl’s hands flew across the keyboard, typing in commands, then stopped. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” Maldonado got up from the chair and leaned over the younger woman’s shoulder. “What am I looking at?”

Stahl clicked to another program. “I wasn’t going to say anything before I was completely certain, but I think I’ve got something. And it’s possibly not good.”

“Well, that’s not specific.”

“Hence my not wanting to say anything. I’ve been monitoring all of the communications going out of the building.” Stahl pointed to a screen full of squiggly lines. “So as you can imagine, there are a lot of communication lines coming in and going out. This program gets the feed from the mainframe that logs all those calls. The black lines are mobile phones. Easy. Everyone communicates with them and all have a similar signal.”

She pressed a few keys and the black likes disappeared. “I’ve removed the cell signals. Left are green and blue. Green are police communicators; they work on a particular frequency.” She pressed more keys, and just blue lines were left. “These are the wireless connections from the synthetics. They take in and send data to the network fairly constantly. Each MX unit has a unique signature so that we can track them and monitor the data they’re exchanging.” She pointed to the screen. “These are all the MX’s assigned to our unit. But. . . .”

Stahl leaned forward. “Did you see that? That tiny blip.” She typed more code. “It’s coming from inside this building but it’s not identified. I’ve been seeing it for a few days, but I thought it was just a hiccup in the program. But it’s occurring at regular intervals.” She opened a chat window. “Rudy, are you there?”

Rudy Lom’s face appeared. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“An unauthorized communication frequency.”

“Oh, dear. That is entirely against protocol.”

“And it might be our mole,” Maldonado said. 

“Come down to my lab. It’s more secure and I have some toys that just might help us dig out him out.”

*~*  
_On the bayou_

John sighed as he reeled in the line. It was clear the fish weren’t hungry for worms today. That, or his scaly, snappy friend under the dock had cleaned them out and scared the others away. Carefully, he rose from the folding chair and picked up the tackle box. _Another day, perhaps._

He climbed the stairs to the cabin, heard birds crying out out as the flew overhead. It was high noon, though he could hardly tell, the canopy overhead was so thick. _Huh. It’s late winter. Should these oaks be leafed out like this?_ He looked around and above him. It was really the first time he’d taken notice of the environment. _Maybe I’ll take a walk around, see what else is here._

He started to the door, and that’s when he spied Dorian standing along the edge of the coffee-colored water of the bayou. Just off the blunt shoreline, he saw the snout of the large resident alligator, partly submerged but pointed directly at the unmoving android.

“Hey, D? D!” He called out. “You all right?”

Dorian did not reply nor move.

“Dorian?”

John watched as the gator slowly moved toward the shore. For a half-second, he thought it would be amusing to watch a wrestling match between Dorian and the reptilian native; imagine how surprised that gator would be when it bit into not the soft, fleshy leg of a real human, but the titanium covering of a DRN. Technology meets Jurassic-era beast.

“Dorian! You see that gator, man?” John called. “Dorian!”

The android finally turned and walked toward him. “John, are you all right?”

John nodded “I am, but you were almost lunch for our friendly neighborhood gator.”

Dorian look back around. “Oh. I didn’t know it had gotten so close.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “You are definitely not okay. Come on up here, buddy.”

Dorian paused, then said, “The generator is not producing enough voltage for me to receive a sufficient charge. I was accessing my databanks. . .”

He stopped. John became alarmed.

“D? Dorian?”

Dorian blinked.

“Okay, you need to be hooked up to the generator, inefficient it may be.” John dropped the fishing gear and came down the stairs. “Can you climb up here?”

Dorian looked at the dock, which was about three meters off the ground. “Yes.” He placed his hands on the wooden decking and leapt up; he stood and then, stopped again.

John took Dorian by the arm. “Okay, buddy. We’re gonna juice you up.”

Dorian looked at him, glassy-eyed. “But John, you know I don’t like orange juice.”

John rolled his eyes. “Oh, boy.”

*  
_CPD Headquarters; Rudy Lom’s basement lab_

“There can’t be unauthorized communications,” Rudy insisted. “The network firewall doesn’t allow it.”

“It’s there,” Stahl replied, crossing her arms. “I saw it. It lasts for just a second each time. But it’s cyclical.”

Rudy stared at the communications grid on his screen. He knew Stahl wasn’t lying or seeing things. He looked around. “What you’re about to see, you didn’t see, all right?”

“You’re getting into the code,” Captain Maldonado said. “Good. Do it. I’ll take the heat if the brass discover it was you.”

“Thank you, Cap’n.”

Rudy keyed in a string of numbers and letters, and within seconds, hacked into the admin account. Some more key strokes and the screen filled with lines and lines of software code. He scrolled down through several screens, and then slowed. 

“Ah-ha. There you are.” He read more, and frowned. “It’s coming from an MX unit but it doesn’t say which one.”

“What are you saying?” the Captain asked.

“That there’s a compromised MX unit in our midst.”

Maldonado whipped out her cell phone. “Richard, Sandra. Assemble every MX unit on site into the recharge area and shut them down. There’s a compromised unit sending out unauthorized communication.” She listened for several seconds. “I don’t care. Do it!” she barked.

“The other worry,” Stahl interjected, “is how much does it know?” She nodded at Rudy. “Check my laptop for a bug. I have that thing locked down six ways to Sunday, and I hate to think someone got around my security. But we need to leave no stone unturned.”

Rudy plugged a cable into the laptop and accessed the hard drive. He pulled up a program and entered commands. “C’mon, you bugger. Show yourself.” He entered more information. “Bollocks.” He entered yet more commands, then sat back. “Let my crawler chew for a bit.”

In a few minutes, Rudy’s computer beeped and lit up. “There. Right there.” He leaned in and examined the coding closely. “Whoever did this is good. Really good. You have great security. But whoever it is found the back door. It’s a router bug, meaning it sends information to a receiver nearby so that it’s not detectable.”

“Like an MX unit walking by.”

“Yep.”

“Dammit,” Maldonado spat. “That means they know where John is. Connect to Dorian. We’ve got to get them out of there.”

“Wait!” Rudy said, putting up his hands. “Are we sure this is InSyndicate?”

“Well, Rudy, who else would go to all this trouble?” Captain Maldonado lowered her cell phone and stared at him.

“And who knew I would be the one working on their route to their safe houses?” Stahl looked at her captain, eyes wide.

“That means we have a mole really, really close. Like in the squad room close.”

Maldonado shook her head. “Let’s assume it is InSyndicate. We’ll deal with the internal traitor later.” She called on her cell. “I need to talk to the Commander, NOW.”

Stahl dialed her cell. “Paul, get in touch with the FBI field office in New Orleans. And call the aviation unit. We need a flight to the closest Air Force base. And call the local LEOs. It’s all hands on deck. InSyndicate knows where Kennex and Dorian are.”

*~*  
_On the bayou_

A few hours passed. Dorian was still in charge mode. John checked the small meter on the inside of the android’s right arm. “Shit, this thing has barely moved.” The generator outside made a high-pitched whining noise each time the motor cycled through. Dorian was right: the generator wasn’t powerful enough to give him an adequate charge.

He sighed. _Someone dropped the ball on that one. We’ve found the weak link in the synthetic force._ The MX units charge in a fraction of the time of the DRNs. But the DRNs also used more power to run the complex algorithms that gave them their near-human qualities. He hate the MXs with their slavish adherence to their protocols. It was that black and white view of the world that had gotten Sanchez killed. Being assigned Dorian when he’d re-entered the forces--re-entered life--had been a source of distress and he’d fought it. But over the months they’d been partners, John had grudgingly come to accept the artificial being, even going so far as calling him a friend.

He checked the meter again. The gauge hadn’t moved.

“Looks like I’ll be making my own dinner. But first, a nap.”

*

After a nap that lasted longer than he’d intended and the largest meal he’d eaten since getting shot, John lazed on the small, yet reasonably comfortable sofa. The noodles and veggies were warm and satisfying, reminding him of his favorite diner in Chinatown. _Not too bad. Would’ve been better with some fish, though._

He glanced over at Dorian who was still connected to the generator. John could hear the engine whining and then sputtering, a sign that fuel was running low. He got up, wincing as he straightened his leg, knee and torso to check on the recharge progress. The meter was half charged. “Hey. Getting there,” he mused.

He busied himself for the next while--washing his bowl, utensils, and pan, rearranging the cans on the shelf, and counting the bottles of water left; he moved on to the bedroom where he pulled his duffle bag out from under the bed and rifled through it looking for clean clothes. There weren’t many items left, so he’d have to think about doing a tub wash. That made him smile. _Haven’t done that since college._. So lost in thought he missed the first low rumble of thunder and the soft beep of Dorian’s connection to the network activated by Rudy Lom from thirty one hundred kilometers away.

*  
_CPD; Rudy’s lab_

Rudy pushed back from the computer. He’d sent the frantic messages to Dorian to get out of their safe house, but there was no indication that he was receiving.

“Unless he’s been turned off manually,” Rudy muttered. “Which makes sense if he’s not at charge.” He tapped his finger against his lips. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” He logged into his account with the NSA and input the commands needed to protect his friends.

*  
_En route to Louisiana_

A squad of SWAT team members, Sandra Maldonado, and Valerie Stahl were on board a Embraer sonic jet, racing towards the Naval air base at Belle Chasse, just south of New Orleans. From there they’d take a helicopter over the Atchafalaya Basin to Calliou Lake where, hopefully, a contingent of local law enforcement personnel would meet them by boat. If the weather permitted. 

“Any updates?” Maldonado asked.

Stahl shook her head. “Last I heard anything the LEOs were getting underway by boat. FBI was assembling at Belle Chasse, but I’m not sure what their status is. There’s a BOLO for any aircraft or boats in their area, so hopefully that’ll stop anyone from getting close to them.” She opened her laptop and brought up the weather map. “The weather is going to be a big factor. I just hope the LEOs get there in time to get them out before everything goes to hell.”

“Before they left, I loaded a bag containing two rifles and two handguns, along with a great deal of ammo,” Maldonado said, turning in the seat to talk into Stahl’s ear. “From what Dorian reported days ago, John is still slow and in pain. Not sure how much help he’s going to be.”

Stahl huffed a laugh. “I’m sure John Kennex will find a way to shoot a gun.”

*  
_On the bayou_

The generator started making straining noises, which meant it was time to gas up. John put on a headlamp, picked up the fuel canister and walked out onto the rear deck. 

It had grown dark since he’d gone inside with the weakened Dorian. The porch overhangs on the front and back of the cabin protected the windows from any winds, which John was surprised to find had picked up considerably. He poured the last of the fuel in the bottle into the generator, and recapped the tank. _We’re gonna need to find that supply drop, and soon._

When he opened the door, a huge gust of wind nearly ripped the knob out of his hand, and he felt the first sting of rain against the back of his neck. “Damn, it’s getting rough out there!” he said.

All of a sudden Dorian sat up. 

“Dorian!”

“John!” Dorian removed the line connecting him to the generator, and looked at the meter. “How long have I been charging? I’m only at sixty percent. Nevermind, I have received several updates from the team. First, there is a big storm coming.”

“No shit.”

“Second, the team has been compromised at headquarters. An MX unit was found communicating without authorization and Rudy found a bug on Detective Stahl’s laptop. We must assume it is InSyndicate.”

“Well, shit.”

“And third, we are under orders to get out. A craft with local agents is on its way to pick us up.”

“That has all the hallmarks of a bad deal. How the hell are we supposed to know who it is in the boat? Why don’t we get ourselves out?”

“Our boat is rather small,” Dorian replied. “We probably don’t have enough power to make it across the lake.”

John sighed. “How much time do we have?”

Dorian walked to the bedroom. “They think the last transmission went out a few hours before they discovered it. Captain Maldonado is leading a strike force, arriving by jet at the naval base, but that will take some time. An FBI contingent is supposedly on their way as well, but there is no ETA. So we must depend on the LEOs.” He yanked a large duffle bag from the top bunk, and stumbled as he swung it down.

John was there to right him. “This isn’t good, D.”

“No, it is not.” He zipped open the big bag; inside were two semi-automatic assault rifles and two handguns, including John’s. Ammunition, clips, and an explosion kit made up the rest of the bag. Dorian held out the big Glock to him. “My battery is discharging at a rate faster than I anticipated. It’s making my servos and processors sluggish.”

“Great, and now with InSyndicate possibly on the way, we’re down a man,” John said. He set Dorian on the bed and looked through the weapons cache. “I’m pretty sure I can hold them off until backup arrives.”

“John, you’re still not able to stand for more than five point eight minutes,” Dorian said. His right hand and left leg were doing the weird shakes that sometimes happened when his power was low. “I’m the best one to take primary defense.” He picked up a rifle and dropped it immediately.

“Riiiight.”

“Well, between the two of us, we’ll be fine.”

“I wonder if we should just get in the boat and move?” John asked.

“Perhaps.” Dorian connected to the satellite for a few seconds. “No. The weather is deteriorating too rapidly and it will be dark in another forty-nine minutes. It is not in our best interests to leave the premises until we have a reliable conveyance.”

‘Yeah, but when have we ever done anything in our best interests?” John asked sardonically. “We usually do just fine, yeah?”

Dorian shook his head. “If we were both operating at one-hundred percent, I might go along with one of your schemes. But today is not that day.” Dorian stopped. “But that doesn’t mean we have to be sitting ducks.” He reached into the back and took out the explosion kit--four wireless detonators, the controller, and four bricks of C4. “We can give our unwelcome visitors a nasty surprise.”

John grinned wolfishly. “Let’s do it.”

*

The rain was now coming down in sheets of gray. John wiped his face for the umpteenth time, knowing for the umpteenth time it did no good.

“You got that other block wired?” he shouted over the howl of the wind as Dorian came over to him.

“Yes, but with all this rain and wind, I’m concerned the signal won’t be viable. We have three sites ready to go. Not sure the one at the dock will receive the signal. I may have to get closer.”

The decision to split up the C4 into three sites took some negotiation and cost them valuable time. In the end, they’d compromised on setting sites around the perimeter of the cabin. Dorian had found boxes of nails, probably left over from construction of the cabin and dock, and buried handfuls of them along with a C4 brick in two; the third site with two bricks wired together along with a bag of nails, was placed under the dock. 

“We’ll make that decision when the time comes,” John said. They were under the cabin where the left-over construction materials had been stored in a box in an alcove in between the floor joists, next to the animal traps. “Glad you went exploring early on and found this stuff.”

“Why the owner stashed six full boxes of nails here is a mystery, but fortunate for us.” Dorian touched John’s arm. “I cannot guarantee that the house will escape the shrapnel pattern. Or that we will not be injured.”

“Well, nothing in life is certain.”

“Except death and taxes.”

John pointed at him. “Got it in one. Okay, we’ve done all we can. Let’s secure the cabin. If the weather doesn’t blow it away first.”

*

_Dorian, can you read me, over?_

Dorian stopped hammering the nail into a board covering one of the two front windows. “Yes, I am receiving you, Captain.”

_Dorian, we are still several hours out. I am going to give this satellite frequency over to Sheriff Joe Daigle. He and his team are on the way by boat. Do you copy?_

“Copy that, Captain.”

_We’ve picked up two boats heading your way, but the LEOs are out in front of them by a good fifteen minutes. You’ll know them when they show up. Over._

“Thank you, Captain. I will be on the lookout.”

_How is John doing? Over._

“Still a little slow, can’t stand for more than five minutes at a time, but I think he can still shoot reasonably well. I, on the other hand, am not up to specifications.”

_You’re just going to have to do your best. I understand from Rudy that you’re underpowered. He’s trying to do some service work on you via the satellite. Over._

“Yes, I have communicated with Rudy using ASCII text. He’s helped me make a few adjustments.”

_I’ve got to go now, but Daigle will be in touch. Over._

“Copy that. And out.”

He finished nailing the board, then stacked another on top, six inches away. He planned to plant John on the sofa in front of this window in case they were unable to get away. At least he could shoot in comfort.

When the all the windows were boarded up, he entered the cabin and barricaded the door with one of the metal folding chairs. Water dripped off of him and puddled around his feet.

“What’s the word? I heard you talking to Sandra,” John said. He was checking his firearm, and had the two rifles on the table along with all the ammunition for them. “Go get a towel, man. Wipe yourself down. Hey, it’s gotten cold.”

“Yes, the outside temperature has dropped ten point three degrees in the past hour. And the Captain relayed that the sheriff is on his way and they are fifteen minutes ahead of two other boats that are unidentified.” He walked to the bedroom and returned with a towel.

“Those would be filled with bad guys, I imagine.”

“Possibly. We have no way on knowing that until they get here.”

A strong gust of wind hit the cabin. “Wow, it’s rough out there!” John checked the clip in his weapon, and felt around for the others.

“The weather is very bad. I don’t recommend you going outside.” Dorian took one of the rifles and three clips, and positioned himself at the window opposite John to cover the rear of the cabin.

John had every confidence that the android could handle the large, heavy semi-automatic rifle, but not in his ability to continue firing at will and reloading. The glitches, the ticks, stutters and falters, continued, even with Rudy doing some remote adjustments in his programming.

The night was pitch black. Clouds covered what little moon there was. The rain was going sideways and the winds were furious. He hated thinking that he would eventually have to leave the cabin, cold though it was. He zipped up the jacket over two t-shirts and flannel button down he’d layered himself in when they’d returned after setting their booby traps.

_Dorian, this is Sheriff Joe Daigle of Terrebone Parish. We are five minutes out. Now, I know y’all are ready for a real shit show, so I don’t want you to go blowing us out of the water when we pull up._

“Yes, sir. I was advised of your arrival.”

_Now I want to put someone on that you already know. Hang on._

_Dorian, this is Captain Bert Doucet with the FBI. I apologize for the subterfuge a few days ago, but we wanted to keep the LEOs outta this business for their protection and unless and until it was absolutely necessary. But now, it is absolutely necessary._

“Oh, hello, Captain. It will be good to see you again.”

John looked at him and made a face. “What?”

_Y’all hang on. We have a fairly large boat to take up into these narrow bayous. And it is darker than the blackest night in hell. Oops, take it easy there, son. We just hit the bank on one side. Aw, dammit. I think we’re stuck. I’ll be back in a jiffy. Over._

Dorian turned to John. “There has been a snag with our rescue party.”

“A snag?”

“Yes. Their boat is stuck in the bayou.”

John rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s just great!”

Dorian looked out the narrow opening in the window. “Actually, that could work in our favor. If the law enforcement boat is blocking the only water access to this facility, then InSyndicate cannot get through.”

“Which means they will come over land.” John thought about that. “Let’s think this through. What are the facts about out current situation?”

“The cabin is the highest point around here, besides the trees. There’s a storm raging outside,” Dorian said, checking outside. A bolt of lightning lit up the sky, following immediately by a loud cracking boom. “A hit, three hundred twenty-one meters to the south of us.”

“That’s close!” John exclaimed. “There’s a _really bad_ storm raging. No helicopter pilot is going to go out in this crap.”

“And no drones, either.”

“The good guys are minutes away, and have satellite surveillance.”

“Yes, but we must assume InSyndicate also has that same capability,” Dorian said rationally. “They have been able to find us.”

“True dat,” John replied. He stood up, slowly, grimacing as he did. “You know, you’d think two weeks would be ample time for these things to heal up.” He rubbed his belly then his leg and knee. “And then there’s us, me and you. You don’t miss a shot, and I’m pretty damn good, even on a bad day.”

“This is true.”

“So all in all, we’ve got about an even chance of getting out of this thing alive and mostly intact.” He raised his hand and Dorian met it with his in a cracking high-five. “We got this, D.”

“We do indeed, J.”

A loud booming on the door interrupted their celebration. John whipped out his weapon and Dorian took aim with the rifle. 

“Dorian! John! It’s Bert Doucet!”

John leaned over and then an FBI credential ID and badge appeared in the narrow gap in the boarded up window. “It’s them, maybe,” he said softly to Dorian. “Show yourself,” he shouted. Doucet’s wet face appeared. “Dorian?”

Dorian squatted down and applied his facial recognition programming. “Facial and voice pattern both match what I have in my memory for Captain Doucet.” He pulled the chair from under the door knob and opened it.

Bert Doucet, five men and three women entered, all wearing black slickers and baseball caps with “FBI” and “SHERIFF” emblazened in white across them. “Good to see you boys.”

“Captain, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Camp Nowhere,” John said, shaking everyone’s hands.

“We have two options,” Doucet said, getting down to business. “We make a stand here and wait for backup. Or, we take off into the woods and make our way to the boat that we stashed down the bayou.”

“So the waterway is open to this site, then?” Dorian asked.

“It is. But we figure they’ll have the same problems we will, especially finding this place, ‘cause it ain’t easy. The only one who knows these bayous is that lady right there. This is her great-uncle’s place.” Doucert pointed to a sheriff deputy, a tall brunette who waved at them.

“Thank you for allowing us to use this cabin,” John said. “It’s been a great hide out, though the lack of facilities will prevent me from giving it a five-star rating.”

“I totally agree,” she said.

“Now, people,” Doucet said, bringing the conversation back to the situation at hand, “we have about five minutes to get ourselves situated. Raymond, you’re gonna take Deputy LeBeouf here and head south down the bayou.”

“I suggest to go as far as you can,” Dorian said. “John and I have set some booby traps with C4 bricks and nail shrapnel.”

“Thank you for speaking up, son,” Doucet said. “That makes a huge difference. Where are these traps?”

“On either end of the cabin about eight meters out, and a double under the dock.”

Doucet rubbed his chin. “Well, that was good thinking when it was just y’all. But we need to set a perimeter defense.”

“Uh, Cap’n,” Raymond said, from his perch by the window, “I’m seeing some action outside.”

The deputies and agents spread out, each finding a window from which to point their weapon. “Kill that light!”

The lantern went out immediately. John was caught standing in the middle of the room with no access to any of the windows. Dorian caught him and led him to the bedroom. “Get down, John.”

“No fucking way!” he protested. “I want to be in on this.”

“NO. Let these people do their job.” Dorian laid his rifle on the bed. “Change of plan. We’re going to stay right here and provide back up.”

“Dorian, I will not. . . .”

Shots rang out. And then, everyone started firing back. “Stay here, or I swear I will tie you to this bed,” Dorian said.

Dorian stood and aimed the wireless controller for the detonator to the east. “Back away from the window and take cover!”

The four law officers in the bedroom scrambled away as the flash and boom of an explosion from the C4 went off. He pointed it in the opposite direction and the site on the western side exploded as well. 

The situation went quiet for several minutes. “Did we get them all?” someone whispered.

“Y’all stay quiet,” Doucet ordered.

Dorian, though, heard footsteps on the dock. “Move away from the front of the cabin. This might be bad.” He depressed the button on the controller, but nothing happened.

“It didn’t go off, Dorian,” John said, getting up. In the dark he banged into the metal bed frame with his knee. “OW! Fuck!”

“Well, no shit, Sherlock.” He opened the door to the back porch, surprising two men wearing night-vision goggles and carrying high-powered weapons. He pushed both of them very hard who then stumbled back on the dark deck. One started to get up, but Dorian grabbed the goggles and threw them into the woods. A deputy positioned behind Dorian shot the other man before he could raise his weapon.

Dorian dragged the now-blinded man into the cabin. “How many are you?”

The man stayed silent. 

Dorian clicked and stuttered. “I-I-I will throw you into the water where there are four hungry alligators. Trust me, I’ve been watching them all week.”

That loosened the man’s tongue. “There are eight of us.”

“Anyone else coming?” Doucet barked.

“No.”

“Bullshit. Throw him in the drink, Dorian.”

Dorian dragged the man outside and threw him over the left side of the deck into the dark, dark water.

The shooting at the front started up again. 

John came around to the back deck but banged he head on the door. “Shit!” He rubbed it. “I’m going out.”

“No, you are not,” Dorian said. “I am going out, and you are going to sit down and stay down. Deputy, you may shoot him if he tries to leave this cabin.”

“D!”

Dorian ignored him. He strode to the edge of the deck and jumped over the right side, landing in dirt. He crouched down, crawled under the cabin towards the dock, and aimed the controller at right side where they had wired two C4 bricks to it.

The dock went up in a blaze of light and fire and sound. Three figures were blown up and back and into the water. The brief light revealed two figures in a boat to the left of the dock. Dorian pulled out his handgun and quickly shot both, who them slumped over; one went into the water, and floated briefly, motionless.

He strode around to the back of the cabin and jumped up to the deck, and stumbled into the wall. The entire cabin shook at the impact.

“Dorian?” John said. He came over and took the android by the arm. “Come inside.”

The shooting continued from the front and across the bayou to the east. “Apparently, the man lied to us because there are clearly more than just eight people out there.”

John set him down on the bed. “Well, when did bad people ever tell the whole truth?”

Just then, an explosion shook the cabin and the west end, the kitchen area, collapsed. Two FBI agents started going down with it, though Doucet grabbed one and pulled him back. The other agent was down on the ground, but he waved, indicating he was still alive.

“Well, shit. I think we need a new plan,” Doucet said.

Dorian, though staring straight ahead, the fingers on his right hand moving rapidly, shouted, “NO! We need to stay here. Help is on the way!”

“Where is it coming from, son? With this weather there’s no way--”

“Captain!” one of the deputies shouted. “Take up positions!”

The officers ducked behind the now shot-up sofa and chair; the others retrieved the mattresses from the beds and put them under the windows. 

But then a bright light from overhead lit up the area. “This is the Marines and CPD!” came a loud voice. “Throw down your weapons. You are surrounded!” Then, lines from a dark hovering craft overhead dropped, followed by five figures sliding down them

“That is the voice of one very pissed off Captain Maldonado,” Dorian said, and then he fell over onto the floor.

“D! Dorian!” John shook the android. “Dammit. This is not a good time to go dead on me, man!” He got on the floor with him and tried to locate Dorian’s reboot switch.

Doucet went out to greet the reinforcements. The other law officers, still wary until given the all-clear signal, remained at attention with their weapons at the ready. 

“Detective Kennex,” Raymond, the FBI agent, said, “Detective, you’ve been shot.”

“What?” John felt around and up and down his torso, and then his hand hit a warm, sticky spot on his side. “Well, fuck. Look at that.” Then he passed out.

*~*  
_Sixteen hours later, Terrebone General Hospital, Houma, LA_

“Well, that was one terrific shoot-out,” one voice said. “Haven’t done anything that old-school in a while.”

“It’s not all that romantic, guys,” Bert Doucet drawled. “Why, I remember one time, we had about five different--”

John opened his eyes with a start, and breathed in sharply. He carefully looked around, assessing the situation.

“Good morning, John.” Sandra Maldonado sat up, coffee mug in hand. “I seem to remember waiting beside a hospital bed with your ass in it not more than a few weeks ago.”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “Shit. Why do we keep meeting like this?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You keep running into bullets, you big damn idiot.”

“It was kind of chaotic, and Dorian wouldn’t let me shoot. Speaking of, where is he?”

“He’s with Rudy and a couple of techs we flew in during the night down the hall. He’s getting a new battery pack, which apparently, replacing isn’t as easy as it sounds,” Sandra replied. “He’s going to be fine. As are you, though you did lose a lot of blood. How the hell did you not know you were shot?”

“I ran into the wall a couple of times and banged my knee. Goddamn, that hurt like a son of a bitch.”

Sandra smiled. “Well, now you have a hole in your side to compete with the one in your belly. How the hell are you going to keep your noodles from falling out?”

John sighed. “I could really murder a bowl of noodles right now. So, how did you get here? I thought you couldn’t get out to us because of the weather?”

“Ha, well, the Navy wasn’t going to take us out there in one of their big helicopters even though the things are built to fly in weather exactly like that.” Sandra shook her head, and then grinned. “But my dad was a Marine, so I went over to their office at the base and the commandant there gave us his stealth stream jet. Damn thing flies so quietly and is so freakin’ cool. The pilot thought the weather was just fine for flying.”

“That’s why you always call the Marines, Captain,” John said. “Ooh-rah.”

“Well, son,” Bert Doucet said, coming over to his bed, “we have cleared up the mess those InSyndicate boys and girls made the other night. Four are now in federal custody and cooling their jets in a nice prison in New Orleans. Final tally is two of ours had some injuries from the explosion; three of theirs are dead; three had some serious injuries from the nail bombs. One can’t be found, and is presumed to have been eaten by one of our reptilian finest. All in all, we had a good showing.”

“And I didn’t even get off one shot,” John groaned. “I’m gonna kill Dorian.”

“Aw, well, there’ll be plenty more bad guys to wholopp another time.” Doucet held out his hand. “Detective, it was a pleasure.”

John shook it. “Thanks for everything. And please thank your agents for helping us out.”

Doucet saluted. “Captain.”

Sandra stood and shook his hand. “Thank you, Captain. Let me see you out.”

John laid back in the bed and closed his eyes. Warmth flooded through him, and before he knew it, he was contentedly asleep.

*

John awoke. He could see that the sun was setting; the small room was bathed in a glowing orange and pink light. The extra sleep had been good; he actually felt like sitting up. And he started to struggle to do so.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Hey, D. You’re back.” John pushed the button on the side of the bedrail, raising the head of the bed to a higher angle.

“Yes, I am.” Dorian pulled up a chair and sat close to John’s head. “Rudy says that several key connections to and from my battery pack had been damaged in attack twenty-one days ago, as well as to the pack due to the poor charging. He sends his apologies for missing those damaged wires.”

John waved his hand. “It’s all good. You’re not seriously hurt. I’m not seriously hurt. None of Doucet’s people were seriously hurt.”

“Uh, you do know you’re still in a hospital bed with a catheter up your---”

“Yes, I am very well aware of that.”

“Good, because your pee bag is getting full.”

John rolled his eyes. “Thank you for that news flash. What do you expect me to do with that information?”

Dorian smiled, the big adorable one John will never, ever confess to liking. “I just want you to know you’re there in that bed and I can get up and walk away any time I want.”

“Great. You can walk yourself out to a noodle shop and get me some food. I’m starving. Maybe some sushi while you’re at it.”

“Oh, no,” Dorian replied, settling into the chair. “You’re on broth and gelatin for the next two days. I read it on your chart.”

“You were reading my medical records? Doesn’t that violate some sort of ethical protocol?” John was outraged. Sort of.

“No, not really. You’re my partner.” He laid his hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed. “I should know everything about you.”

John grinned, despite himself. “Kinda makes us bros, don’t’cha think?”

Dorian laughed quietly. “Yes. I think it does.”

Together, they watched the orange and pink sunset fade to twilight.

*~*

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 Work in Progress Big Bang, a fic community to get you to finish your shit.
> 
> I started this for the Almost Human big bang in 2014. I ran out of steam, as per usual, when I hit a plot snag.  
> I picked it up again last year, re-read it, liked it, resolved to finish it. Here I am. That, and the promise of art from @amoresophisticatedkrackel made me push through. 
> 
> Thanks to WIPBIGBANG for the impetus to write again. BIG thanks to my beta reader, the always awesome, sister of my heart and soul, weepingnaiad. My thanks in advance to @amoresophisticatedkrackel for art that will be published in the near future.
> 
> This is for all the fans of ‘Almost Human’. It was great while it lasted. Long live, John & Dorian!


End file.
